


Soul of a Man

by nishiki



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Big Brothers, Canon Disabled Character, Disability, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Father of the Year, Gen, Light Angst, Mob Boss Ragnar Lothbrok, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Disability, Protective Older Brothers, Protective Ragnar Lothbrok, Ragnar's A+ Parenting, Single Parents, Warnings May Change, ivar is a little shit, other characters to be added - Freeform, single dad Ragnar Lothbrok, single parent Ragnar Lothbrok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: Ivar did not know yet that his mother had died giving birth to him, he did not know yet the plights of his life or the hardships that were ahead of him, he did not know yet how cruel the world was towards people like him, people who were not entirely whole or perfect. To Ragnar, however, Ivar was perfect.
Relationships: Bjorn & Gyda (Vikings), Bjorn & Hvitserk & Ivar & Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Bjorn & Hvitserk (Vikings), Bjorn & Ivar (Vikings), Bjorn & Ragnar Lothbrok, Bjorn & Sigurd (Vikings), Bjorn & Ubbe (Vikings), Gyda & Hvitserk (Vikings), Gyda & Ivar (Vikings), Gyda & Ragnar Lothbrok, Gyda & Sigurd (Vikings), Gyda & Ubbe (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar & Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ragnar Lothbrok, Hvitserk & Sigurd (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ubbe (Vikings), Ivar & Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar & Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar & Ubbe (Vikings), Ragnar Lothbrok & Sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, Sigurd & Ragnar Lothbrok, Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Ubbe & Ragnar Lothbrok
Comments: 102
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> When I first came up with the idea, I did not plan on making it a mob-related story in any way. I originally planned on having Ragnar be a simple farmer with a bunch of kids running around - but after the mob idea first got into my head, I couldn't get it out. So, here we go. Single Dad AU with a twist, I suppose.

**November 2004**

Thor was swinging his hammer. That was what his own father would have said while thunder was crashing like mighty waves during a storm on the open sea and lightning flashing across the sky like the sparks that would shoot forth whenever Mjolnir was hit against steel. The night was dark and the hospital eerily silent as Ragnar Lothbrok was pacing the gloomily lit corridor. Five children. He had witnessed five children being born. Five children - and it never got any easier.

His first and only daughter Gyda had been born when he had barely been twenty-one years old, a young man himself, with his head full of stupid ideas and plans and his heart full of love for his first wife Lagertha despite what his father had said about their union. Their love had been irrational and unplanned, an inconvenience for everyone involved and to this day his heart firmly belonged to her. Gyda had not been planned either - a sudden, unexpected gift early in his life, solidifying his love for Lagertha and the bond they shared in the eyes of his conservative parents. Two years later, Bjorn, his oldest son, had been born and made them a real family, easing the tension between Ragnar and his own father. Now he was thirty-seven and his fifth son was about to be born. It never got any less nerve-wracking, never less exciting, never any easier. A part of him wished that he had known that as a young man.

The clock had ticked past midnight a couple of minutes ago and Ragnar Lothbrok was continuing to pace the corridor of the nightly hospital like a mad man, certain that his feet would surely leave marks on the floor, and wear down the ugly grey linoleum with his shoes. At least, he thought to himself, he was not alone, waiting for the news about his son and wife. He had always been with Aslaug inside the delivery room and had insisted on it since Gyda’s birth even. For the first time, he had not been allowed inside the room and the anxiety was eating him alive and tearing at his insides. 

Bjorn was sitting hunched over on one of the plastic chairs. His only support during this hour of restlessness, unease, and fear. Gyda had volunteered to stay with her younger brothers. He was glad that they were not here right now. Ubbe would be sitting next to Bjorn, doing exactly what his big brother was doing, Hvitserk would run up and down the corridor much like Ragnar, and Sigurd … little Sigurd would probably be sulking as far away as possible from the action while not really understanding what was going on in the first place. He still had to get over the fact that he was going to be replaced as the baby of the family. He had not taken the news with joy, unlike his older siblings. Ubbe couldn't wait to have another little brother. He had spent every waking moment near his mother, pressing an ear against her stomach, talking to his little brother Ivar when he had been barely bigger than a peanut. He would be the best big brother his youngest son could ever hope for. 

“Everything will be okay, Dad” Bjorn’s voice cut through the silence of the hospital like a whip.

“Of course,” He muttered more to soothe himself than respond to his son. “Of course.”

And yet, it was two months too early. It was only mid-November and Ivar should not have been born before mid-January. Aslaug’s water had broken in the middle of an argument right in their expensive kitchen earlier tonight. He didn't even remember what they had been arguing about - not that it mattered. They were arguing all the time. It seemed that it was all that they were doing lately. Ivar was too little - much too little for the thirty-second week. He knew that. Aslaug knew that. On the last ultrasound, he had barely been bigger than a coconut. He knew what that meant. Aslaug knew what that meant. The doctors knew what that meant. Gyda knew. Even Bjorn knew. All things considered, his oldest son was here with him only to be a shoulder for his father to lean on when the inevitable would happen. All the more he appreciated it.

Aslaug, his second wife, had complained a lot during this pregnancy. The other three times she had taken it in strides, without bitching and moaning in the slightest. This time everything seemed different. She had been complaining about pain ever since the early stages of her pregnancy, cursing the baby under her breath at times when he wouldn't let her sleep. Surprisingly, however, little Ivar had never kicked his mother. His older brothers had been real soccer players while being in the womb but Ivar was not and still he gave his mother a lot harder a time. And now it was taking forever for him to be born after he had been in such a rush before. 

“Tomorrow you will laugh about being so nervous,” Bjorn smirked and Ragnar huffed out a chuckle.

“Probably.” 

“Ivar will keep you on your toes, old man. I mean, he is already doing it, isn’t he?” 

Ragnar sure hoped he would. He desperately hoped that Bjorn was right. 1 AM came and went and Bjorn was dozing off on his chair. It was 2 AM when the door to the delivery room finally opened and the doctor walked out, looking just as tired and stressed as Ragnar felt. The man gave a tired smile before he walked over to Ragnar and put a hand on his shoulder. Dr. Svensson had delivered his other three boys that he had with Aslaug too and as he looked at him now, Ragnar knew that his world was about to fall apart.

“There have been complications,” The man said and Bjorn was beside him within a heartbeat, a hand in silent support on his back. 

※※※※※※※

His baby boy weighed nothing at all as Ragnar Lothbrok held him in his arms for the first time. He only had a couple of minutes before this tiny little thing had to be placed back inside the incubator where he would be warm and safe. It was not nearly enough time as he stood there with Bjorn by his side, holding Ivar in his arms, this tiny, two-pound baby.

“He will never walk,” He whispered to Bjorn. “If he survives, that is.”

“He is a fighter,” His son answered back, peering over his father's shoulder to have a look at his baby brother with that tiny blue hat, wrapped securely in a blanket. Ivar did not know yet that his mother had died giving birth to him, he did not know yet the plights of his life or the hardships that were ahead of him, he did not know yet how cruel the world was towards people like him, people who were not entirely whole or perfect. To Ragnar, however, Ivar was perfect. He was perfect in spite of those frail, crippled legs that were already broken just from being thrust into this world. He was barely an hour old and already Ivar knew what pain was. 

“In the ancient days, babies like him have been cast out to die…” Ragnar muttered as he carefully, gingerly, rubbed his thumb over Ivar’s cheek. His thumb seemed huge compared to his little face and he could not shake the comparison to a giant holding a miniature figurine of a human baby. He could hold him in one hand and still barely felt his weight. Over the grief of the loss of his wife, Ragnar’s heart was overflowing with love and the primal urge to protect this little, helpless creature. He remembered crying and bawling his eyes out every time he had greeted a new child of his to this world, being there when they took their first breaths and let out their first screams, cutting the umbilical cord with trembling fingers, holding them in his arms fresh out of the womb, his heart overflowing with pride and a love that could not be compared to anything else he had ever felt, knowing that he would die for each one of them and embrace death with a smile, knowing he would kill for them and not bat a lash. Right now as he was holding Ivar, however, no tears would come and his throat wouldn't close up either. Holding Ivar felt different than holding all his other children. He was such a fragile little thing. “How cruel that would be.”

“He’ll make it, Dad,” Bjorn promised confidently. “You’ll see. He will pull through and then he will be a pest because we will all spoil him rotten. He already has you wrapped around his little finger.”

**-End of Chapter 1-**


	2. Chapter 2

A house full of children. A house full of sons. A legacy. Something to be proud of. That was all that Ragnar Lothbrok had ever desired. His own father had been satisfied with two sons to keep the family business running. Two sons in case one of them died without children - a well-founded worry in their métier. Ragnar, being the younger of the two sons of Sigurd, should have never inherited the company, all things considered. That honor usually went to the firstborn son. He had been the spare to Sigurd’s true heir and yet he was at the helm of the great ship now. His father had seen his potential and Ragnar was determined to do the same thing and help his sons fulfill their potential as well. A house full of sons. Yes, that had been the dream.

The reality, however, was that having a house full of sons meant having a house full of bickering beatniks. Ubbe, the oldest of his four sons with his second wife, was twenty-two, only a year older than Ragnar when he had his first child with Lagertha. He was legally a grown man and although he was of his four boys the peacemaker, he could be just as childish as the rest of the bunch. Raising Ubbe had been easy. He had hardly needed to do anything, in fact. Ubbe had been perfectly content in waddling after Bjorn like a little puppy, learning from his big brother as he had desperately tried to be just like him in every detail - even going so far as to cut his hair exactly like his big brother for a while. 

Hvitserk, his second son with Aslaug was twenty years old now and liked to go out and have fun more than anything else in his life. Looking back, the only thing truly remarkable about raising Hvitserk was the amount of food the boy would devour and then claim that he was still growing without having the decency to blush.

Sigurd, only two years younger than his older brother Hvitserk, was a quieter, calmer character, yet an entertainer at heart. Together with his two older brothers, he had liked to play pranks on their staff and generally cause mischief inside the house. He was reliable in his business and loyal to his older brothers and his sister.

And then there was Ivar, his youngest. Arguably, it was Ivar who needed him the most. Ivar, who needed his constant attention and care - something that Ragnar simply could not give him.

Right now, Ivar was staring at him out of angry blue eyes across the dinner table inside the lavish dining room. It had been Aslaug’s idea to go for a mix between modern and art-deco when it came to the interior design of their house and that reflected especially inside the dining room. Ragnar hated this room with a passion but he had never found the time to change it up like most of the house. He liked the modern style of the architecture but he was more of a woods and timber kind of guy at heart, a Viking through and through. 

Ivar was sixteen years old - a baby, really - yet, he thought that he already knew everything about the world. Handling Ivar was more often than not like handling a life grenade so he cowardly left it to Bjorn or Ubbe whenever it was convenient. And it had been too often convenient in the past sixteen years. Ivar’s screaming and crying as a child had driven him up the walls and out of the house most days. A part of him was ashamed to admit to his own shortcomings as a father and yet, Ivar was driven to anger almost all the time. Even as a small child he had been uncomfortable to be around. Now that he was a young man, he was resentful of his father and bitter about his life. 

“It's not fair,” Ivar said, his voice even although with a hint of a tremble to it that gave away his true anger. He sounded almost exactly like he had at three years old when he had not been allowed to stay up late on new years eve because he had kept falling asleep on Ubbe. “Why can’t I come with you?” 

Despite sounding petulant like a toddler, there was a true challenge in Ivar’s impossibly blue eyes. They were very blue today. Chances were good he would break a bone again soon. Looking at his son now, it was hard to see the little boy he once was, except for moments like this when he all too willingly regressed into that stage of petulance. At sixteen he had not yet lost all his baby fat, of course, but already his features were angular and sharp, his cheekbones high, his lips full and his gaze dominating. All things considered, Ragnar would go as far as to say that his son was definitely good-looking, as were all of his sons. 

Ubbe, still dressed in his work clothes after he had just returned from the office, lowered his eyes decidedly at his food to escape playing the mediator for a few more precious seconds. It was not often that Ragnar would have dinner with his boys like this. He had always strived to make it a thing at least once a week but that quickly had become once a month. Work was demanding not only for Ragnar but for his other children as well and their schedules were tight. 

“Because I say so,” Ragnar replied and he noticed how Ivar tightened his grip around the butterknife he was holding. “You never wanted to come with us to parties like that, you would be bored.”

“Well, I do now!”

“I am not discussing this any further, Ivar. You stay home. You are sixteen years old and too young for parties like that.”

“Sigurd was at a party like that with fifteen!” Ivar slammed his fist down hard and sent his fork flying in the process. “It's because you don't want the world to see your cripple son, isn't it? At least have the fucking balls to say it! You don't want the world to know that the great Ragnar Lothbrok sired a fucking cripple!”

Before Ragnar could even think of something to say or do, Ivar threw his knife on the table, disengaged the brakes on his wheelchair, and left the dining room faster than anyone would ever assume him capable of. Even Ragnar Lothbrok sometimes still made the mistake of underestimating that boy.

"This boy," Ragnar groaned and fell back into his chair, his own food forgotten for a moment as he dropped his own cutlery on the table. All eyes were on him, of course. Ubbe leaned back in his seat much like Ragnar had, looking defeated if he wouldn't know it any better. Sigurd was leaning over his plate but didn't eat, looking more annoyed than anything else. He too was still dressed in his fancy work clothes, his long hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail. Hvitserk was, naturally, the only one of his boys who had not stopped eating. "I will never understand him!"

"Maybe," Ubbe spoke up calmly after a moment of careful consideration. "that's because you never spend time with him or talk with him. All Ivar really wants from you is to be a part of your life, be a part of your legacy, Dad. You keep shutting him out."

"I'm doing no such thing,” He groaned, waving away Ubbe’s accusation with his hand like it was nothing but a bad smell before he grabbed his fork and knife again. He was hungry like a wolf and he would eat, regardless of whether or not one of his sons decided to throw a temper tantrum or not. “Your brother behaves like a petulant toddler and you keep coddling him, Ubbe! No, Ivar has to learn his place in this family. He is sixteen years old. So, he is old enough to know that." Ragnar pointed his fork at Ubbe. "You should have done a better job at teaching him!"

A heavy sigh left his son’s throat at that and he rolled his eyes to the sky. If Ubbe would not have been his son, he would have poked his eyes out for that. "And since when am I his mother? Or his father?" Hvitserk almost choked at his food at his brother’s words. 

"You are his big brother - he is your responsibility."

"And so is Bjorn! And Hvitserk! And Sigurd! He has more than enough big brothers for that matter - but maybe his _father_ should have tried teaching him!" 

Hvitserk actually scoffed in response to Ubbe’s words but quickly returned to his food to not draw any more attention towards himself before his big brother got up from his seat at Hvitserk’s side. It was unusual for Ubbe to get into an argument with his father when he could help it but Ivar had always been a sore topic between them. From the moment Ubbe had first laid eyes on his baby brother, he had been his most fervent protector, never leaving his side if it could be helped, annoying the nannies with his hovering around the little one, cuddling him when he was allowed, watching him sleep when no one noticed. 

“Ubbe is right, you know?” Hvitserk chimed in after Ubbe had left the dining room too, his mouth still full before he took Ubbe’s plate and nonchalantly dumped the rest of Ubbe’s dinner onto his own plate. If Ubbe was still hungry, he would need to starve for all Hvitserk seemed to care. 

Undoubtedly, Ubbe went after his baby brother like he always would. There were only a handful of people who dared to speak in such a way to Ragnar Lothbrok, only a handful of people who dared to get up from the table without his explicit permission. Everyone else would suffer the consequences. His sons, however, knew that they were the most important thing in his life. His own father would not have hesitated to punish him and his brother had they acted in such a way. It was expected of a man in Ragnar’s position to strike fear into the hearts of those closest to him but Ragnar had never put a hand on his children, even at times when he had been brought to the brink of his sanity by them. Fear was not the same as respect and above all he wanted his children to respect him. He was rather a loved father than a feared one, rather a respected leader than a hated one. When people hated their leader, they tended to revolt. No one revolted against a beloved leader.

“Is he now?” Ragnar asked, resting the back of his head against the backrest of his chair to look at Hvitserk down his nose. “Elaborate.” He enjoyed seeing Hvitserk squirm. 

“It's just … You never bothered to spend much time with Ivar, that's all.”

“Why would he?” Sigurd snorted, more confident to talk bad about Ivar now that Ubbe was not in the room. “He’s a cripple. What possibly could he give to father? Don't forget that he killed our mother, Hvitserk. He’s lucky that he is even allowed to live in this house. Father could have easily sent him away.”

The resentment that Sigurd felt towards his youngest brother had always been something that pained him greatly and yet he had never found a way to put a stop to it. Sigurd had only been two years old when Ivar had been born. For Sigurd, it had been more traumatic than for his older brothers, he had not understood what was happening. One moment his mother had been there, playing with him, carding her long fingers through his curls, and the next moment she had been gone, died after giving birth to his baby brother. Already, Sigurd had been jealous all throughout the pregnancy, annoyed and angry when his mother had spent entire days in bed because of the discomfort she had been in. To Sigurd, Ivar had been a monster that killed his mother right from the start.

“I don't want to hear such foul language from you, Sigurd.” He hissed and Sigurd stiffened noticeably in his seat. “Ivar is your brother and the way you talk about him is unbecoming.”

“But it's true!” Sigurd then groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “He will never be part of the company, right? He will never contribute anything. You will never be able to take him to meetings and parties. He will never make a name for himself in the underworld. Who would be afraid of him? He should have realized that by now. After all, he’s supposed to be so smart, isn’t he? Yet, he sticks to the childish belief that he will be a part of all of this someday in the future.”

“I mean I am pretty afraid of him,'' Hvitserk huffed to lighten the mood and threw a piece of bread at his brother.

“Because you are a giant pussy!” Sigurd laughed and threw a piece of bread back at Hvitserk in retaliation.

“No, because I am smart and value my life. I don't want him to bite my leg when he’s slithering around on the ground in the middle of the night or something.”

“I would be more afraid of Ubbe,” Sigurd snickered. “He will rip your head off if he hears you talking shit about his precious baby.”

“Maybe I am going to rip your heads off for speaking about your baby brother like this,” Ragnar interjected calmly. “You should not be surprised, Sigurd, if Ivar pisses in your protein shake again soon.” He enjoyed seeing how red his face became while Hvitserk barked out a laugh. “And you should be careful too, Hvitserk, otherwise I would be forced to send you on the next trip to Algeria.” Immediately, he stopped laughing but Ragnar did not bask at the moment as he slowly got up from his chair, undoubtedly, the rest of his dinner would soon find its way into Hvitserk’s stomach as well. At least they were not wasting any food in this house thanks to that boy. “Clean up the table, boys.”

He knew that he should go and talk to his youngest son but whenever Ivar was angry, there was no talking to him. Ivar had a short fuse, barely existent even. He had always had a bad temper and puberty really didn't help in that regard. Still, with a sigh, Ragnar decided to at least try to talk to his son. All things considered, he should just grab his jacket and head to the meeting Rollo expected him to show up at anyway. It wasn't like he could play babysitter and therapist for his youngest son all the time. He had businesses to lead, people to threaten, making sure that everything was as it should be. If the rival families would ever know that Ragnar Lothbrok was avoiding talking to his youngest son because he just couldn't deal with Ivar, they would quickly lose respect for him. 

Ivar’s room was the only bedroom on the ground floor of the mansion to make maneuvering around in or without his wheelchair easier. This way he wouldn't need to go up or down the stairs. He had his own bathroom, access to the kitchen, and everything else he needed. Not that this would stop Ivar from going upstairs to annoy his brothers. He could hear voices murmuring down a wide corridor the moment he rounded the corner to walk towards Ivar’s room. 

“He hates me.” For a second, Ragnar stopped in his tracks as he heard Ivar’s voice. 

“No.” Ubbe, always the peacemaker. People were always relieved when he brought Ubbe to negotiations. Most people thought that Ubbe was not much of a threat, that he was soft - until they would try shit with him for the first time and realize that Ubbe was just as scary and brutal as his father and older brother. “No, he doesn’t hate you … He just … He…”

“He hates me,” Ivar replied bitterly, his voice sharp like the knives he liked to throw when he got bored. “He can't even stand looking at me or being in the same room as me. At least Sigurd says it openly … I’d much rather have him tell me how disgusted he is with me than have him pretend that he cares.”

“Dad just has a hard time showing how he feels, Ivar,” Ubbe said softly. “He loves you, I assure you he does.”

“Then why does he lock me away in this house? Why does he never give me a chance to prove myself?”

“He is just worried about you. You are only sixteen, after all.”

Ivar let out a deep, guttural growl at this comment and Ragnar knew exactly what kind of annoyed face he was making in the confines of his room. He was snarling, his nostrils flaring, his nose wrinkled like a dog when it would growl, his lips pulled back, baring his teeth at his brother. All things considered, Ivar more often than not was like a dog or a wolf. He was certainly as dangerous as a wolf when crossed. 

“If one more person tells me how old I am, I am going to burn this house down, Ubbe!”

“Whether you want to hear it or not, Ivar, you are a minor, you are a _child_. Father just wants to protect you and keep you out of the public eye as long as possible. The world we are living in, the business we do, the people we surround ourselves with are dangerous.”

“He didn't care about that when you introduced you guys into his business!”

“You are his baby,” Ubbe laughed. “What do you expect? You are his youngest child, his baby and you will forever be his baby whether you like it or not. He is extra protective of you.”

“Because I am a cripple.”

“No.” He sounded exasperated. Bless his heart.

“Yes.”

“Ivar-”

“Ubbe.”

“You are one stubborn bastard.” Ubbe laughed again and Ragnar heard a smacking sound - probably Ubbe smacking his brother on the back of his head in retaliation for being such a nuisance. He certainly deserved it. 

“Do you agree with Dad, though?” Ivar asked after a moment of silence between the brothers. “Do you agree that I am too young? That I need to be protected?”

“Not completely” Ubbe replied. “I agree that you are too young but I don't agree that you need to be protected. You are stronger than most people give you credit for. You are capable and smart. I think Dad makes a mistake in not utilizing your talents.”

“That might just be the nicest thing one of you guys ever said to me.” Ivar huffed. Leave it to Ubbe to disarm the bomb that was Ivar. Silently, Ragnar turned and walked back down the hall. Maybe now was not the time to talk to Ivar and anger him further. 

※※※※※※※

**February 2005**

For the fourth night in a row, Ragnar did not find sleep. That was by no fault of his own. He was plenty tired and had slept earlier in his office at his desk. The cause of his involuntary insomnia was currently screaming their tiny lungs out three doors down the corridor. The nanny was not here during the nights, leaving the care of Ragnar’s youngest son to his father because, in the beginning, he had wanted it to be like this. He was out of the house most of the day so, he had thought, to at least have some time with his youngest, he would happily take the night shifts. He regretted this decision now thoroughly.

“Daddy?” A groan slipped from his throat as he blindly reached out to switch the lamp on his nightstand on. He had not heard Ubbe come into his bedroom over the screaming but as he turned his face towards the light now, Ubbe was standing right next to him in all his 45” glory, bright blue eyes staring at him big and round, blonde hair tousled, the pajama with the little penguins on it rumpled and askew. “Ivar cries.”

“Really?” Ragnar replied with a lopsided smirk despite the awkward position he was in right now. “I wouldn't have noticed…” Ubbe made a grimace in return, too young to understand sarcasm, but Ragnar slowly sat up in bed and ruffled his son’s hair gently before standing up. “Let's have a look at the banshee then, okay? We don't want him to wake up the whole of Kattegat.”

Ubbe easily slipped his tiny hand into Ragnar’s hand as his father led the way out of the bedroom and down the corridor as if Ubbe would not know where to go - as if Ubbe would not be found in his baby brother’s nursery whenever he was allowed to. Ivar’s nursery was illuminated only by his nightlight, which painted stars all over the ceiling. Aslaug had taken great care and poured all her love into the nursery of her youngest. She had had the walls painted resembling a churning sea and his crib had little boats all over it. The nightlight had been Bjorn’s idea to calm the little one down at night - which did not seem to work so far.

Ragnar switched on the ceiling light and hoped that the crying would stop only to be disappointed as it didn't. Ivar, no matter how tiny he was, had lungs of steel. All of his children had screamed at night. It was normal. But none of them had cried and screamed like Ivar was now. Ubbe let go of his father’s hand to rush over to his brother’s crib where he stood on his tiptoes to look into the crib. Ivar still didn't stop crying. 

“Ivar,” Ragnar muttered tiredly as he walked over. “What's the matter, buddy, huh?”

“He’s all red, Daddy.”

“What do you mean?” Ragnar asked as he reached the scene of the crime. “He is just red because he screamed so much.” With a sigh, he went to pick up Ivar and tried to ignore how much his heart was racing as he did. His baby boy was home for only two months now after he had been forced to remain in the hospital for a couple of weeks until it had been safe for him outside of the incubator. He was still tiny and fragile and Ragnar hated picking him up, hated holding him in his arms because of the pure terror that holding Ivar made him feel. Ivar didn't stop crying as he picked him up either or when Ragnar started rocking him gently or when he sat down with him on a rocking chair. A quick diaper check revealed that this couldn't be the issue and he had been fed only an hour ago. Ivar was a bad eater anyway. As he held him in his arms, however, he could feel how hot the little guy felt.

“Ubbe,” he addressed his older son and Ubbe was by his side immediately, eager to help as always. “Be a dear and bring me the thermometer, okay?”

Ubbe nodded before bouncing out of the room. He heard him tell his younger brothers to go back to bed before he returned to Ragnar and his baby brother. Ragnar ruffled his hair again and Ubbe’s eyes gleamed with pride before quickly filling with worry again as Ragnar pressed the thermometer to Ivar’s forehead.

“Is he sick?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Ragnar then sighed. “He is running a fever…”

He had to thank God for his oldest children Gyda and Bjorn. Even as their father called them in the middle of the night, they still came to watch over their little brothers so that their father could go to the hospital once more with his baby boy. He had spent over a month inside the hospital, being there every single day since Ivar had been born, going home only to shower, change clothes and maybe hug his other three boys. The day of the funeral had been the longest and hardest day of his life - not because the loss of Aslaug would have struck him so deeply but because he had to be there for his other three children and could not be with Ivar for most of the day. Every time he had to leave the hospital, he had been deathly afraid of getting a call or returning to the hospital only to find his baby gone. 

And now here he was again, sitting on a yellow plastic chair as a pediatrician was checking on his baby boy. Ivar was now only three months old and he had barely gained any fat, barely grown, and spent more time with doctors and at hospitals than with his own father. It was a beautiful thing, though, in a way. People who knew who he was feared him or were at least wary of him. He owned the entire city and there was not a single person in Kattegat who did not owe him anything. Yet, when it came to children, every parent was the exact same here at the hospital, even Ragnar Lothbrok. Even Ragnar Lothbrok was nothing more than a worried father, biting his thumb while he watched Ivar’s doctor as he was handling his baby. Aslaug’s death had been all over the news and tabloids, just like the birth of his youngest child. Ivar’s condition, on the other hand, was a secret and it would remain one - he had made sure of that.

“What's the verdict, doc?” He asked, trying to play down his nervousness. Every time he would bring his son to the doctors he would get new bad news. No three months old baby should have a list of issues as long as his arm but Ivar Lothbrok was not like other babies.

“We should keep him here until the fever breaks under observation.” The doctor said. “Usually, I would send him back home but with babies like him…”

“We have to be extra careful,” Ragnar sighed. He had heard these exact words a million times by now. Every little thing that had been normal for his other kids was a huge issue for Ivar it seemed. He was scared that it would stay like this forever. Would he continue to run to the doctors when his little son got a runny nose or scraped his elbow for the rest of his life? 

“Yes,” The pediatrician said with a sympathetic smile. “Maybe you want to go home and get some sleep.”

“No … No, I’m staying with him,” Ragnar said without even thinking about it. 

He felt guilty, in a way, for deciding to stay at the hospital instead of returning home to his other three kids. Ubbe was a champ in how he was handling all of this. He was already taking charge over his younger brothers, making sure they were okay and had everything they needed despite them being surrounded by a gaggle of nannies and bodyguards and other employees most of the time. Hvitserk and Sigurd, on the other hand, were a different story. Sigurd was only two years old and had no idea why his dad was never around or why, _when_ he was around, he was taking care of the baby all the time and not spending any time with him. Hvitserk with his two years advantage did not fare much better, though. By all means, Ragnar should return home instead, gather all his children, and camp in his bedroom with them. Ivar was in good hands. Still, ten minutes later, he laid down on an uncomfortable cot and fell asleep next to the crib his child was in.

※※※※※※※

The warmth of the fire never failed to seep into his bones as Ragnar sat in front of the stone fireplace in the winter garden of his house. Around him, in narrow, hidden corridors, his employees were going about their work before finally heading home for the day. It was already midnight but the house was never devoid of staff no matter the hour of the day. 

Ragnar had never been a fan of having people working for him inside his own four walls, unlike his father who had never cooked a meal for himself or folded a piece of laundry. Ragnar was a bit more down to earth than his old man was but after he had married Aslaug, she had taken the decision of employing staff from him as she had moved into this mansion. Aslaug had been, in every sense of the word a spoiled princess. The marriage with her had solidified a hugely important deal between their two families and secured a major alliance between his family and hers, securing new shipping routes, new connections to certain countries and businesses and promised growth for both parties. Their marriage had made their children both Norwegians and Swedes and solidified the friendship between their countries at least on that familiar level. He had kept the staff on after her death because by that point he had gotten used to it and sometimes it had made him feel comforted that there were always people around. His kids had been safer this way, he thought. 

As he sat with a glass of whisky in his winter garden now and looked out over Kattegat, he felt as if the ballast on his shoulders didn't weigh him down as much as it usually would. 

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” A voice startled him out of his musings but Ragnar just breathed out a chuckle. He had not even heard Ivar as he had crawled his way through the house like a serpent. 

“You should be careful what you wish for then,” Ragnar replied but kept his gaze directed through the massive windows to overlook his city. 

“Are you implying that I want your throne, father?” Ivar asked innocently before he pulled himself onto the armchair next to his father. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed how Ivar greedily eyed the whisky decanter that stood between them on the small glass table. He held no illusions about the fact that Ivar had already tasted alcohol before. In fact, Sigurd had once ratted his baby brother out when Ivar had been barely fourteen. He had painted a very vivid picture of Ivar getting into his father’s liquor cabinet and how Ubbe had then been forced to pat his back and hold his hair during the aftermath. Ragnar had, much to Sigurd’s displeasure, refrained from punishing Ivar for his petty crime of liquor theft and underage drinking. He had been punished enough by his own body. So, with a small sigh, Ragnar turned his head to meet his son’s cocky grin and mischievous eyes before he took the plug out of the decanter, grabbed the second heavy crystal glass that was always on the table, and poured two fingers widths of the golden liquid into the glass. 

“I am not implying anything, Son,” He replied as Ivar took the glass. “But I do know you.” Ivar scoffed at that.

“Do you?” He replied sharply. “You are never here.”

“Ah, but you make a mistake if you believe that I need to be physically present to know things,” Ragnar said and clinked his glass with that of his son. “I have my eyes and ears everywhere, little spies that tell me everything.”

“Sigurd.” Ivar deadpanned and finally took a sip of the liquor only to make a face as it burned his throat. Oh, sweet summer child. It was moments like this when Ivar would expose himself for how young he truly was. 

“Sigurd.” Ragnar nodded. “And Hvitserk. Your brother is quite the gossiper.”

“That's all the reality TV he is watching.”

“You are not going to change my mind, you know?” Ragnar then said. “I am not allowing you to come to that gala.”

“Why not?” Ragnar groaned. “No, really, Dad! Why are you not allowing me to tag along? I am your son whether you like it or not! What's so horrible about me that you hide me in this house? Am I that much of a fucking disgrace?”

“I never called you a disgrace, Ivar!”

“Well, you don't have to!”

“I am not taking you with me to that event because I want to protect you!”

“I don't need protection!” Ivar finally erupted and threw his glass against the fireplace where it burst into a thousand tiny shards. Ivar did not wait for his father to get angry at him as he quickly lowered himself to the ground again and crawled back into the house. For a moment, Ragnar thought that he should follow him and beat some sense into this boy. His father would not have allowed such behavior. His father would have beaten his ass for such disrespect. He didn't get up from his seat, though, just lifted the glass to his lips and took another sip of his whiskey.

**-End of Chapter 2-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think. I adore this fic. In the beginning, I was not quite sure about it but by now I adore it. Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (https://niishiki.tumblr.com/) for snippets of future chapters <3 <3 <3


	3. Chapter 3

“So, our new favorite competitor just blew up one of our warehouses at the docks.” Hvitserk sounded a little too cheerful for his taste as he disclosed the news with a lopsided grin plastered onto his face as Ragnar and his sons were sitting inside the living room. Outside the sun was sinking over Kattegat, painting it in warm oranges and magenta tones. It had been a warm day and yet, Ragnar had spent it cooped up in his office the entire day.

“Which one?” Ubbe asked and took another sip of his drink, his voice as nonchalant as that of his brother, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back more comfortably into the couch he was occupying. 

He was still wearing one of his more expensive suits and had just come home after a long day of business negotiations with his own uncle. Unlike his younger brother Hvitserk, he had no problem wearing a suit and would not rip it off of his body the moment he would come home. It had always been a nightmare to get Hvitserk to dress properly and it seemed that Ivar had taken a page out of Hvitserk’s book in that regard. Ragnar was sure by now that there was not a single pair of jeans in Ivar’s closet that did not have holes in it. It was a fashion statement, the young lad would claim because looking like a homeless person was, apparently, a fashion statement and one that Hvitserk also whole-heartedly embraced whenever he was not forced to wear a proper suit.

“None of the ones holding weapons and ammunition, thankfully.” Hvitserk snorted. “Otherwise the whole harbor district would have gone up in flames.”

“Were your men not guarding it properly?” Bjorn asked before Ragnar even got the chance to.

“My men,” Hvitserk replied snappishly. “Were guarding the more important warehouses. Also, we had a deal going on when it happened. I can't be everywhere at once.”

“That would not be a problem if you would better plan out where your men should be at all times. Also, it would help if you would increase the numbers of the men you employ. It's unacceptable that under your supervision one of the warehouses was lost, Hvitserk.” Ivar’s voice was as sharp as a knife as he directed his attention on his older brother. He was not often part of these discussions between Ragnar and his other four sons. He wanted to keep Ivar away from these matters as much as possible and that included discussions like this one. He was a teenager and should, by all means, focus on his school.

“Here we go again,” Sigurd sighed, sinking back in his seat next to Ubbe. “Professor Ivar lecturing his older and smarter brothers again.”

“Well, if it's necessary, of course, I am going to lecture my older and ‘smarter’ brothers. And, evidently, it _is_ necessary.” Sometimes it was outright annoying to Ragnar how smug his youngest boy was. Sure, he knew that Ivar was right and he knew that his son was incredibly smart and sharp but right now he was just being an obnoxious brat - something that Ivar liked to be on a daily basis.

“You are not even supposed to be here!” Sigurd snapped back. “You have no idea what you are talking about Ivar. I think it would be best if you would just leave us the fuck alone and go play in your room while the adults are talking!”

“Sigurd, Jesus Christ!” Hvitserk groaned, rolling his eyes while Bjorn emptied his drink in one go. Clearly, Bjorn was just as fed up with his younger brothers’ petty fights as Ragnar himself was. “No need to go all berserk on him.”

“Your brother is right,” Ragnar said and Ivar grinned triumphantly as he looked at Sigurd. “Ivar.” Immediately his grin slipped and made room for very badly concealed disappointment. “You should go to your room. This discussion is nothing you should be a part of. Not yet. Your time to participate will come when you are older.”

“But, Dad-”

“ _Now_ , Ivar.” It was Sigurd’s time to grin victoriously as Ivar gaped at his father like a goldfish before, with a growl, he maneuvered his wheelchair away from the group and out of the room. At least Ivar knew that arguing with his father would do him no good. A part of him felt sorry for asking him to leave but Sigurd was right. This business stuff was nothing that concerned Ivar yet. Only as Ivar was gone, Ragnar turned back to Hvitserk and the situation at hand. “I have to agree with your brother, Hvitserk. You need to employ more men. Something like this can never happen again, do you understand?”

Hvitserk clasped his mouth shut, clenched his jaw, and nodded stiffly. He knew better than to talk back to his father. They all knew.

※※※※※※※

**January 2006**

“Why is Ivar in the laundry basket?” Ragnar Lothbrok was a man of many talents, a man with a certain level of intelligence and wit, a man who always knew what was going on in his various businesses, the illegal as much as the legal ones. He prided himself on always knowing exactly what other people were thinking or what other people were going to do. Outside of this house, people were afraid of him, people were respecting him. Outside of this house, no one was talking back to him. All of this always changed, however, as soon as he would go home to his family. It had been a mistake to say that he didn't need the nannies around on the weekends. That much became clear as he was standing in the laundry room now with a pile of unwashed socks, finding his one-year-old lying in one of the baskets in front of the washing machine looking up at him out of big blue eyes.

It was certainly not the weirdest thing that a parent would experience when juggling four little boys. He had heard all kinds of strange stories from the boys’ nannies on their weekly briefings. Like the time when Ubbe had a phase when he refused to put pants on for a month in the middle of winter. No one really knew why he had decided pants were not cool to this day and no one questioned it now - it had simply become a story that Ragnar would file away in his head to be used on Ubbe’s wedding day in the faraway future. Ubbe surely had had his reasons. Just like Hvitserk surely had had his reasons for refusing to eat his favorite breakfast cereal during the past two weeks, or Sigurd refusing to use the ‘big boy toilet’ after Ubbe had told him that there was a monster living in said toilet. 

As far as he could tell right now as he was looking down at his baby, Ivar seemed both unbothered and unharmed as he lay in the basket on top of the dirty laundry. Ragnar, however, was startled by the discovery as he had been about to dump the socks he had found in the various beds on Ivar. Of course, whenever there was trouble brewing on the horizon none of his boys were in sight or hearing distance. He already knew who the culprit was anyway. This case certainly did not require the help of one Sherlock Holmes to solve. 

Sigurd was only three years old. He was not able to carry Ivar around the house no matter how small the little guy was. Ubbe would rather cut an arm off than do something like that to his baby brother. So, that only left Hvitserk. Hvitserk, who was suspiciously absent from the playroom as Ragnar walked into the room five minutes later with Ivar in his arms. He only found Ubbe building a house out of lego blocks with Sigurd - or rather, Ubbe building a house and keeping Sigurd from eating the lego blocks.

“Where is your brother, Ubbe?” He addressed the oldest of his four little boys. Ubbe first looked at Sigurd, then at Ivar on his dad’s arms and, by process of elimination, came to the conclusion that Ragnar was looking for Hvitserk.

“He was here a minute ago,” Ubbe replied with all the innocence a seven-year-old could muster - which was a lot in Ubbe’s case. Unlike his younger brothers, Ubbe had not even the slightest bit of a mischievous streak in him. He was often so innocent, in fact, that Ragnar worried if his son would be a good fit for the world Ragnar was living in. When he thought about introducing Ubbe into his less than legal business ventures and the dangers that came with that, he felt sick. Then again, he had thought the same thing with Bjorn whenever the little guy had stumbled over his own feet. “I think he went to his room.”

“Thanks, Buddy.”

“Can Ivar stay?” Ubbe then asked with a toothy grin and Ragnar almost expected him to make grabby hands for his little brother. 

“No, he needs a diaper change,” Ragnar huffed. “And food, probably. You can play with him later. Your brother already had an exciting day and it's not even noon yet.” Of course, Ubbe shot him a confused look but Ragnar just grinned and left the playroom again to go on a hunt for Hvitserk before he would actually go change Ivar’s diaper. The little guy still seemed massively unimpressed with the whole situation, though. For all the crying and screaming, Ivar did at night and sometimes throughout the days, he could be remarkably calm at times. 

Ragnar quickly made his way to Hvitserk’s room but did not find his son. Not at first, at least. A couple of seconds later, he realized that a piece of Hvitserk’s cuddly blanket stuck out of his closet door. The boy refused to go anywhere without that stupid thing. Getting him to part with it so that it could be washed was always a nightmare for everyone involved. The boy even bit his nanny once because she wanted to take _Sir Blankalot_ from him and every time the blanket would end up in the washing machine, Hvitserk would be sitting in front of the machine, watching the blanket spin. He had not had this unhealthy obsession with his blanket before Aslaug’s death, which was why most people involved in raising Hvitserk just ignored it and let the little boy have his blanket. It was hard for Hvitserk. It was hard for all of them. Even though his mother had not been the most involved in her children's’ lives, she had still been his mother and Ragnar knew that Hvitserk missed her. In a way, maybe Ivar had it the best. At least his little boy would not need to deal with having to miss his mother on top of everything else he would need to deal with. 

“Well, Ivar,” Ragnar said extra loud into the room. “Where is your brother? Didn't Ubbe say he was here? But look, he’s nowhere to be seen. I guess we will have to eat the waffles I made without him.”

“No!” Leave it to Hvitserk to put food over his survival instincts. Immediately, the little guy shot out of his closet, his green blanket, of course, tightly clasped in his little hands. It took him a moment to realize his mistake or the distinct lack of delicious waffle smell wafting through the house, when he did, however, he looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. 

“So, are you going to tell me why you put Ivar in the laundry basket?” He addressed the situation head-on, even though it made Hvitserk squirm noticeably under his father’s gaze. “Was that some kind of backhanded way of telling me your brother needs a wash?”

It was always a sight to behold when Hvitserk would get flustered. He would turn bright red in a matter of milliseconds, his whole body glowing like a traffic light. He would start shuffling his feet or playing with his hands. right now, Hvitserk could not even meet his eyes. 

“I … Uhm…” Hvitserk began eloquently to state his case. Sure, the boy was only five years old but, just like it was with Ubbe, if Ragnar had to imagine Hvitserk as a part of the Norwegian underworld he really could not see it. Having so many children and having always maintained that he wanted to spend time with them and raise them as much as he possibly could, gave him a different outlook on his businesses and life than most other people in the world of organized crime that he knew. It made him more relaxed, in a way, when he would go toe to toe with yet another little gang boss trying to fuck with him because he would know that this guy too had once been a waddling toddler stumbling over his own two feet. In the end, they were all just human beings and none of his competitors were the monsters they were being hailed as.

“Yes?”

“I … Uhm … you … Uhm … forgot to … Uhm … give him his bath … last night.”

It took Ragnar a moment to fully grasp what Hvitserk was saying. What a strange kid he was. Carrying his baby brother all the way from his nursery to the laundry room to put him in a laundry basket because his father had forgotten to bathe him the night before instead of just telling him. He bit back on a chuckle as he addressed Hvitserk again.

“You are aware that you could have just told me, right?”

“You were so busy…” Hvitserk mumbled while addressing his feet. “You are always busy and you get angry when we interrupt you...”

That, for once, really took him off guard and suddenly the great Ragnar Lothbrok had no idea what to say. He had not expected to hear something like this from his young son and immediately felt as if it knocked his socks off. “I’m not … getting angry when you interrupt me.” Defending himself came naturally to him and yet, deep down he knew that Hvitserk was right. 

How often had he yelled at his boys when he had been buried in paperwork while they wanted to tell him something? How often had he cursed Ivar for screaming while he had tried to make sense of yet another legal document? Weekends were for the family. That was a boundary that Ragnar had established with his first wife and kept it with Aslaug just the same. On the weekends, he would be home and spend time with his children. And yet, more often than not, he would find himself buried in work lately while he was supposed to be spending time with his kids. More often than not he would even forget that Gyda and Bjorn would come over to do something with their little siblings and their father and he would get pissed when they would show up and thus interrupt his work or mess with the plans he had made for himself.

“You know what?” He sighed. “You are right, Hvitty.” He couldn't help but smirk at the way his son’s face lit up at the use of this little nickname. His name had been too complicated to say for Ubbe when they were little and so, Ubbe had quickly started addressing his baby brother as _Hvitty_ instead - something Sigurd had adopted as well when he had started talking. With a small smile, he offered his hand to his son and Hvitserk did not hesitate to take it, clasping Ragnar’s hand with one hand and his blanket with the other. “Come on, we are giving your brother a bath together.” Hvitserk’s grin only spread at that and sure enough, he followed his father, his blanket dragging behind him.

※※※※※※※

Sometimes Ragnar Lothbrok was convinced that it was much easier to lead a crime syndicate than wrangling his sons into behaving properly. As he returned home late that night, he already heard shouting from the second floor, wafting down the stairs and filling the house. For a moment, he contemplated just leaving again and going back to the office even before he had closed the door or hung up his coat. However, since he recognized that Ivar was involved in whatever shouting match was going on upstairs, murder would always be a possible outcome of that and he did not wish to lay one of his sons to rest anytime soon. So, with a heavy sigh, he shrugged out of his black coat, hung it haphazardly over the coat rag, and dragged his body up the stairs following the sounds. Thankfully, he did not have to search for long as he found the source of the commotion in Hvitserk’s room.

“Care to explain what this noise is all about?”

Both his boys startled at the sound of his voice but Hvitserk was the first to recover. Quickly, he pointed a shaking finger at his little brother who was sitting on the ground by his bed, and looked as if he had never done anything wrong in his life the way he blinked up at his father with his big, blue, owlish eyes. “He is literally Satan!” Hvitserk then replied in an angry yell. 

“Okay.” Ragnar nodded. Clearly, it had been a mistake to ask. Clearly, he should have just gone back to the office and slept there instead. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe of Hvitserk’s room, crossed his arms, and felt decidedly less like a feared mob boss and more like an exhausted father. “Should I go and fetch the holy water then or do you want to actually explain to me what he did that makes you think Lucifer lives in this house?”

“Yeah, to you that's all just a big fucking joke, Dad! He stole my phone and sent porn to everyone in my contacts!” Ragnar had a hard time keeping a straight face at that while Ivar did nothing of that sort. No, in fact, he looked very proud of his little prank, and definitely way too amused for someone who had just committed a heinous crime against their brother for no reason other than to be a nuisance. “Thank fucking God it was my private phone! Can you imagine what would have happened if it would have been my work phone?”

Ivar broke out into laughter at that. “Who says I didn't steal your work phone too?” Hvitserk, on the other hand, blanched, looking ready to faint on the spot before he began looking for his other phone which would inevitably lead to Hvitserk turning his whole room upside down. This kid had never learned the benefits of being tidy. Even now that he was twenty years old, Hvitserk’s room still looked like a bomb had gone off every time he got dressed in the morning and every time Ragnar witnessed Hurricane Hvitserk go through any room in this house, he considered paying the maids responsible for cleaning up the mess his son made a bonus.

“Ivar,” Ragnar said, keeping his voice deliberately low and steady - mainly to keep himself from laughing while Hvitserk was searching for his phone like a headless chicken. Just because he found it funny did not mean that he could let Ivar get away with shit like this. “Give him back his other phone. I hope for your sake you did not do anything with it.”

Ivar rolled his eyes and, with a groan, pulled Hvitserk’s second phone out of the back pocket of his baggy jeans only to throw it at him. Immediately, Hvitserk began looking through his phone but Ivar only sighed at the fuss his brother was making about all of this. “Relax. I didn't do anything. I am not stupid, you know? I would never mess with your business, Dad.”

“Why did you do it?” Ragnar then demanded to know.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” Both Hvitserk and Ragnar seemed lost at this answer. “It's the only entertainment I get! I am locked up in this house 24/7 365 days a year! You never allow me to go anywhere! You only ever allow me to get out of my cage when it's time to get a new fucking wheelchair or when I broke another bone and absolutely _have_ to go to the hospital! I am going crazy in here! So, what exactly do you expect me to do, huh?”

“That still does not explain why you are bugging your brother.”

“He deserved it.”

“What did he do?”

“He promised me he would watch a movie with me tonight.”

“And?”

“And he didn't show up because he had a date with some random chick he met on tinder!”

Oh. As Ragnar looked at Hvitserk he watched how his son’s ears turned red ever so slightly. At least Hvitserk had enough decency to look sheepish at his brother’s words. It was obvious that Hvitserk felt guilty for forgetting about his date with his brother. Ivar always got excited when his brothers would make time for him to do something with him, even though he was always very adamant about acting as if he was completely unfazed. Sure, maybe Ivar’s prank was still a little bit of an overreaction but Ivar was prone to those. They all knew that. He was often like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum and, dear God, he understood why. It had to be terribly frustrating for Ivar, the life he was leading. That still did not excuse his behavior. 

“Well,” Ragnar then turned to Ivar. “Maybe if you would not behave like the antichrist all the time your brothers would not flake on you! I mean can you really blame him, Ivar? The first thing you do when he comes back home is not to ask him if he forgot about your plans but send porn to all his contacts? You are always in my ears about wanting to be a part of the business, about wanting to be taken seriously and then you do childish, petty shit like this? How will I ever be able to take you seriously when you do crap like this? Your behavior lately is completely appalling! Three more members of our house personnel have quit because of you just within the last month! Not to mention the nannies you have burned through or the many, many tutors you have scared off! Maybe, dear Ivar, it is time that you overthink your actions and your behavior instead of being a petty bitch about everything. Maybe then your brother would actually _want_ to spend time with you!”

He had not intended to go so hard on Ivar. It was so easy to get frustrated with this boy. Ivar was highly intelligent and clever. At sixteen he was doing college courses from home. He had so much in this head of his and used it only for petty pranks on his older brothers. He had the worst temper Ragnar had ever seen in any person he came across and was perceived as a menace not only by his family but especially the staff. Most of the people working inside the house were deathly afraid of Ivar. And for good reason too. If Ivar would be able to walk, he would be one of the most dangerous, one of the scariest enforcers Ragnar could ever hope of having for his business. Right now, however, he was not very scary as he looked at his father with watery eyes. his jaw clenched hard, and his lips a tight, white line to keep them from trembling.

Quickly, Ivar looked away again before he crawled out of the room and past Ragnar without another word. He didn't question how the boy had even managed to get up here. Ivar had very soon proven to his family that he did not need working legs to get anywhere he wanted to get to. At four years he had tackled the stairs for the first time and despite breaking a couple of bones in the process, that had not kept that little devil from trying again and again. He was, in a way, like a cat. Always getting into places he should not be getting into, always causing a ruckus.

“Wow, Dad,” Hvitserk sighed as he sat down heavily on his bed, threw both his phones to the side, and dragged his hands down his face. “Was it really necessary to go that hard on him? I mean, yeah, I am pissed but … Jesus. You really hurt him just now.”

“I don't think that's possible.”

“You think wrong then,” Hvitserk scoffed with a deadpan stare. Of course, his son would know better than Ragnar. After all, Ragnar barely spent any time with Ivar. “You don't really know Ivar if you think that you won’t be able to hurt him with your words. I would have thought you were smarter than that, Dad. Ivar is actually quite sensitive for someone with such a big mouth.”

He was actually surprised to hear Hvitserk be that sassy with him. Maybe that should have been expected. Ivar was not the only one in this family who was opinionated and sassy, after all. Hvitserk, however, usually just was not that much of a talker in Ragnar’s presence - unlike Sigurd, who would barely shut up at times. Still, instead of being angry, he huffed out a chuckle and sat down next to Hvitserk on the bed. Soon, Ragnar thought, Hvitserk would move out. It was a miracle that both Ubbe and Hvitserk were still living at home and he harbored no illusions about the fact that they were not staying for him. 

“Yeah, maybe I am not as smart as I thought,” Ragnar then sighed. He felt ten years older all of a sudden and not for the first time he wished he had someone to confide in about all of this. A partner. Not just someone to share his bed with. He thought about Lagertha and about what she would have said to him in this situation. Aslaug had never been much of a real partner to him and certainly not someone he could honestly tell his worries to. If Athelstan would still be around, he would have listened to Ragnar talk about his sons for hours with the patience of a monk and then told him about all the things he was doing wrong with Ivar and helped him to make amends with the boy. Often he had wondered how different his life would be like if Athelstan would still be around - if Athelstan would have been able to spend more time with Ivar even. 

“Long day?” Hvitserk asked after a moment of silence with a sympathetic smile.

“Yes,” He chuckled. “Our new favorite competitor is actually trying to get toe to toe with us it seems.” He had been keeping an eye on the Brits for over a decade now but the moves they were making all of a sudden were concerning to Ragnar. So far, they had accepted the fickle power balance between them but now they seemed willing to risk everything just to gain more influence.

“Are they trying to embark on our territory?”

“It seems like it.”

“Do you think we face another gang war then?”

“Eventually, if their behavior does not change, that is. I will meet with their leader a month from now to negotiate.”

“What do we know about them so far?”

Ragnar almost laughed about that question. There were just some things he was not telling his children. Rollo and Floki knew all about Ragnar keeping tabs on all the other possible threats out there but his kids did not necessarily need to know about that. Now yet, at least. They would hear about that when it was time. “Well, the leader is an older gentleman. Your grandfather used to make deals with him every now and again. Very rich, old money, and from what I can tell, very intelligent too. I am actually looking forward to meeting him. His son, on the other hand, seems to be more of a loose cannon.” 

“What's their deal?”

“Weapons. For the most part. They have a couple of drug cartels under their belt as well, of course. It seems they want to take over our territory as well, secure our travel routes to the middle east and south America.”

“As much as I hate to say it, Dad, but I think maybe you really should consider letting Ivar in on this ish,” Hvitserk then sighed. “He is smart. Maybe he has an idea how to move forward from here that you have not even considered yet.”

“I meant what I said, Hvitserk. I want to keep him away from this stuff for as long as possible. He should just focus on school and his education.”

“Sooner or later you will have to include him, Dad,” Hvitserk said and Ragnar knew that he was right. He could not keep Ivar away from the family business forever, could not keep him locked up in this house forever. And, the longer he would keep Ivar out of the loop, the longer he would keep Ivar caged up, the more and more resentful the boy would become of his father. Maybe, Ragnar thought, he was creating a monster with his approach of parenting Ivar. “Listen, I get that you want to protect him because he is not like us but this only makes his behavior worse. He wants to prove himself to you, Dad. He just wants to be a part of everything and show his worth to you. Give him a chance. Maybe just small tasks that he could do for you, something behind the scenes to ease him into the business.”

“I agree that he needs to be involved at one point but maybe not right now when we may very well be facing a war with those British bastards,” Ragnar sighed.

“Dad, there will always be someone trying to fuck with us. What we are doing is dangerous and it will never be less dangerous.” Hvitserk shrugged. “There will never be a right time to introduce him into the business and just because he is handicapped you should not treat him with kid gloves.”

“I know that, Hvitserk,” He replied sharply. “I will not be changing my decision regardless of that.”

“Well, then you can not be surprised that Ivar is acting out.”

**-End of Chapter 3-**


	4. Chapter 4

Leading an organization like the one he had been entrusted with by his late father was never easy and Ragnar had learned that quite early on after taking over. Delegating tasks was hard too. His father had never been very good at delegating anything and that, in the end, had only furthered the rivalries between Ragnar and his older brother Rollo. Ragnar, however, had always been intent on not making the same mistake. 

From the start, he had made it very clear which of his children would take over what task or business. Gyda, for example, was leading a pharmaceutical company, one of his legal businesses, while Bjorn was his second in command at his weapon producing company, the _Lothbrok Arms Cooperation_. Every one of his children had a share in this company and every one of them was the head of at least one of his legal businesses all across Norway and Sweden. When the time would come for him to pass his legacy on, Bjorn was to take over and after him, it would be Ubbe. Gyda should have been his successor to the throne, but she had waved this privilege early on. She was not very keen on the illegal side of it all and tried to stay away from the world of crime that her family was so rooted in as much as possible. His other children, mainly Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd, had no such qualms. They were his enforcers in a world of crime, feared by many. 

He could not be prouder.

These days, however, when he would look at his youngest, his baby, he would catch himself thinking that he might have made a mistake. Maybe Ivar should be the one to succeed him on the throne instead of Bjorn. He could see talent in him and, sometimes, Ivar would remind him too much of himself as a young man. And, so far, Ragnar had no idea if that was a good thing or not. 

It was cold inside his office as he sat down with his sons and his daughter. Outside the world was already covered in darkness. Another long day came to an end. 

“I talked to Ecbert, the head of our new favorite rivals in the industry,” Ragnar said as a way of introducing what he had to say. “I can honestly say that the conversation was more pleasant than I would have expected. Ecbert seemed reasonable enough and we came to an agreement in the form of an alliance.” It had been easy to push the right buttons with the old man. Not only did Ecbert remind him of his late father but it also helped that Ragnar had spent a couple of years getting to know the man and his businesses in secret. It always helped to go into a conversation prepared and he held no illusions over the fact that Ecbert had done the same thing - though maybe not as thoroughly as Ragnar had.

“You don't sound happy, though,” Gyda remarked cleverly and sat down in one fluid motion on the armrest of the sofa that was already occupied by Ubbe and Hvitserk. She could have made them make room for her but that was not in her nature. She had her brothers under control without ever exerting control. She was the oldest of his children and her younger brothers would do whatever she would say - if she would say anything. Real power, Ragnar knew that, was to not feel the _need_ to say something or order someone around.

“As much as I think that Ecbert was truthful, I realize that his days are numbered and his son will not honor our arrangement,” He said as he refilled his glass. “His son Aethelwulf strives for more than his father achieved, for more than his father already won. As soon as his father kicks the bucket, I expect a war between our family and theirs.”

“We need to be prepared then,” Ubbe chimed in, his big blue eyes resting on his father. The way he looked at him now, his chin tilted down, his eyebrows shooting up, his gaze directed upwards, reminded Ragnar painfully of the little boy Ubbe used to be that had constantly been seeking his guidance. “We should make sure that our defenses are impenetrable, secure more money on off-shore banks - just in case the worst is to happen.”

“Good, yes.” Ragnar nodded. “You and Hvitserk will take care of the necessary steps, Ubbe. Everything needs to be watertight. Move our most valuable assets away from Kattegat and double the guards on the ground. Also, make sure that our ships will take different routes from now on.”

Ubbe nodded and drained his own drink in one go. There had been a time when Ubbe had first been introduced to alcohol, that Ragnar had been nervous his son might struggle with accepting his limits and not overstepping them. Those worries had been uncalled-for. In the end, Ubbe was always an example of moderation. He would never drink more than two glasses to keep his mind sharp and be a good example for his little brothers. And, God knew, Hvitserk especially needed this good example. Yes, Ragnar thought as he looked at his second-oldest son, he could always rely on Ubbe, just as he could always rely on Bjorn. They were loyal to the core. Ubbe especially was more often than not like a loyal dog.

“I have a task for you too, Sigurd.” The young man raised his head to look at him. “And you won’t like it but it must be done.”

“What is it?”

“Ivar.” At the sound of the name alone Sigurd stiffened. Ragnar could only imagine that the scar on his cheek was itching whenever the name fell. In a fit of rage, Ivar had thrown a knife at his brother at the age of thirteen. Luckily, it had not hit Sigurd, just grazed his cheek but the scar would stay with him forever, reminding him of his brother’s unbridled, uncontrollable fury. “As much as I don't like it, at the prospect of a turf war, your brother has to be initiated. I will leave it to you, Sigurd, to show him the ropes.”

“That is not a good idea,” Bjorn huffed. “They will kill each other.”

“No, they will not,” Ragnar said and kept his tone purposefully even while he glared first at Bjorn and then at Sigurd. “Because Sigurd will get over his petty rivalry with his younger brother and make his old father proud. Isn't that right, Sigurd?” Sigurd’s knuckles had turned white so hard was he gripping the glass in his hands, his jaw was set, his teeth gnawing together in silent anger, his eyes shooting daggers across the room. Unlike Ivar, Sigurd would never dare to throw any sharp object at one of his family members, though. “Isn't that right?” He asked again and Bjorn nudged SIgurds shoulder.

“Yes,” He ground out. “Of course, father.”

※※※※※※※

**April 2007**

Being a father of six children, Ragnar Lothrbok had learned one thing early on: whenever it got silent inside the house, it meant disaster was about to strike - like the one time when Hvitserk had decided to cut his hair himself at the age of four, leaving Ragnar no other choice as to shave it all off in the end - much to Hvitserk’s chagrin. As Ragnar walked through the house on that Sunday afternoon, it was _very_ silent. Naturally, he was tipped off by that as he went to check on his boys. He had spent the afternoon in his office at the house and could not help but feel guilty about it. Yet, this paperwork had been important and he needed to make a decision tomorrow which he could not make without having read those documents he had been pouring over for hours now. He just would take extra time for his gremlins next weekend.

As he reached the second floor, he went to Ivar’s room first because it was the closest to the stairs and the closest to his own bedroom. Soon, Ragnar thought, they would need to furnish a bedroom for the little guy on the first floor instead. Having the little guy up here was convenient at night but it would be too dangerous when he would be old enough to crawl around on his own terms. He had already made plans for Ivar’s new bedroom downstairs. It would need some remodeling so that it would be wheelchair accessible when the time came. He could not expect him to crawl around like an infant for the rest of his life, after all. Then again, the doctors' predictions were still grim and looking grimmer each year. 

Ivar was two years old now. His other boys had already been waddling around at that age. Ivar, however, could barely drag himself on his belly. 

Every year his list of medical issues only got longer it seemed. Apart from the bones in his legs that broke like twigs, he had a weak heart, arrhythmia, and, to put the cherry on top, asthma. That was not unusual for babies that were born as prematurely as Ivar and still, Ragnar had always hoped that Ivar would get stronger and defy all the expectations his pediatricians had for him. Not to mention the severe pain his little boy always seemed to be in. 

Whenever Ivar hit a growth spurt, it seemed, his baby was in pure agony and more often than not one or two of his bones would just snap in the process. By now, Ivar absolutely hated being held or cuddled and the only way that the little guy had at his disposal to express that to the world was screaming and lashing out with his tiny fists. Each day now it became harder and harder being near the little guy. So far, two nannies had given up on him, unable to cope with that, and the live-in nurse that was meant to help him sometimes only seemed to make matters worse. Most days the only thing that served to soothe Ivar was Ubbe and that never failed to leave a sour taste in Ragnar’s mouth. He as Ivar’s father should be able to soothe and calm him but instead, it was his young son with his eight years of age who knew all the ways to relax Ivar and get him comfortable when he was in the thralls of another one of these tantrums.

The nursery was empty when Ragnar walked in. There was no reason to be nervous when he did not find his baby in his nursery. Knowing Ubbe, he had probably stolen his baby brother and took him to the playroom. Still, his pulse was quickening ever so slightly. Ragnar Lothbrok was by no means a helicopter parent but Ivar was not like his brothers, after all. Quickly, he made his way down the corridor towards the playroom where he found three of his four young sons playing quietly with legos. Well, at least Ubbe and Hvitserk were. Sigurd was very quietly reading in one of his picture books, sitting in a beanbag in the corner, his teddy clutched in his arms while he did. While Hvitserk and Ubbe looked up at their father at his arrival, Sigurd decidedly did not.

“Where is Ivar?” Ragnar greeted his children and Ubbe just shrugged his shoulders. 

“He was in his room last time I checked,” He answered dutifully.

“Well, he is not there anymore,” Ragnar replied. “I told you to look after him, Ubbe!”

“But he was sleeping in his bed, Daddy! I didn't want to wake him up!”

“Well, he can’t have just vanished can he?” And now he was starting to get panicked. He knew that he could trust Ubbe to look after his baby brother dutifully - more than he should, perhaps. Ubbe would have never left Ivar alone in his room if he would not have been sleeping peacefully. Again, his eyes snapped back to Sigurd who was not even looking at him. Instead of asking him, however, Ragnar wandered back into the hallway to search for his baby. He knew, of course, that Ivar could not have left his room on his own. Someone had to have had a hand in this baby vanishing act.

Sure enough, both Hvitserk and Ubbe followed him to look for their brother while Sigurd remained behind, making him very much his prime suspect. He could deal with that later, though. Right now, he needed to find Ivar, and Sigurd’s silence was not necessarily an indicator of his crime. Sadly, Sigurd seemed to hold only very little love for his baby brother. He couldn't even blame the little guy. He was only four years old and all he saw was that Ivar came into their family and his mother went away, all he saw was that Ivar got all the attention because of his medical issues. He was ashamed to admit it but it had been easy to forget about Sigurd these past two years.

Quickly, he was heading down the corridor, calling out for Ivar as Hvitserk and Ubbe were doing the same thing. It was Hvitserk who alerted him of the crying after a few moments of their search. “Daddy!” He called out. “I can hear him cry!” As he turned to look at Hvitserk his son was pointing at the linen closet at the other end of the hallway.

Without wasting another second, Ragnar quickly hurried towards the closet and, sure enough, he could hear Ivar screaming, though muffled through the heavy door. He would be able to pick out the voice of his son under a million other voices. With Ubbe and Hvitserk on his heels he opened the door only to find Ivar sitting on a bunch of folded towels, his face red and his cheeks wet. The moment the door opened and he saw his father, he quickly made grabby hands for the first time in quite a while.

"What are you doing in here, hm, Ivar?" He asked calmly as he bent down to pick the runaway baby up. Of course, deep down inside he was fuming but if he would show his anger that would only stress Ivar out more and spook his other two boys. Even as he picked Ivar up, the little gremlin did not stop screaming but for the first time in a long while he actually clung to his father and buried his face in his chest. Ubbe looked at him out of big and round eyes but Hvitserk spoke again first.

"How did he get in there?" He inquired curiously and Ragnar decided to play dumb for a minute. He would handle this with Sigurd without both of his big brothers harping on him.

"I don't know, Hvitty. He must have crawled here and then the door fell shut behind him." Hvitserk was not dumb but with his six years young enough to believe that story just like he believed in the Easter Bunny and Santa. Ubbe, on the other hand, furrowed his brows but he did not say anything. Instead, he lightly smacked the back of Hvitserk’s head to get his attention now that the crisis had been averted and the baby found. 

"Come on, Hvitserk! Let's play in the garden!" 

Ubbe was not always known for his subtlety but right now he proved that he could read a situation much better than his little brother could. Hvitserk immediately forgot all about the missing baby incident and hurried after Ubbe as he ran down the corridor. That only left Ragnar and his now crying son. At least he was no longer screeching and Ragnar had hopes that his warmth and smell would lull Ivar to sleep soon enough after all this excitement.

“Let's see your brother, right, Chipmunk?” As he returned to the playroom, Sigurd was still sitting in his beanbag with his book, not looking up at Ragnar or his baby brother. “Look who I found, Sigurd!” He did his best to sound cheerful as he approached his son but Sigurd barely reacted, his eyes glued to the pages of the picture book. “Don't you want to know where your baby brother was? You wouldn't believe it!”

Finally, Sigurd looked up, and much to Ragnar’s surprise, his bottom lip was trembling even before he had had the chance to actually yell at the boy. With a sigh, Ragnar sat down in another bean bag close to Sigurd. Ivar was no longer crying but just sniffling miserably into his shirt. Snot was leaving wet trails on the expensive fabric. Not that Ivar would have cared, of course. “So,” He addressed Sigurd then. “Are you going to explain to me why you put your baby brother in the linen closet?”

Sigurd was one of his more sensitive children for sure. He had that in common with Ubbe. It did not even take Ragnar yelling or being stern for Sigurd to start bawling his eyes out but Ragnar also knew that his boy was feeling mostly sorry for himself right now and not for the situation he caused. Sigurd knew that there would be a punishment and that was what was breaking his little heart. Ragnar watched how fat crocodile tears were quickly rolling down Sigurd’s face as he looked at him, snot dripping from his tiny nose, making a face only a parent could love. Ragnar knew by all means that he should not give in so easily but he couldn't help it. 

Two crying little boys were just too much for any man to handle in such quick succession so, with yet another deep sigh, he slid his bean bag closer to Sigurd’s so that he could easily pull him over and next to him, even though it was a tight squeeze. He put his arm around Sigurd and allowed the boy to snuggle into his side even though that meant having both arms full with two of his boys. Well, there were worse things - like Ubbe’s icy feet when he would crawl in bed with him without socks. 

“So?” He asked after a moment of silence, hoping that Sigurd had calmed down enough to talk.

“You don't care about me.” Was the heartbreaking explanation for his crime. “It's always just _Ivar, Ivar, Ivar!_ I hate Ivar!” Not for the first time, Ragnar was glad that Ivar with his two years of age could not yet understand everything his brothers would say to him or that his father would say about him. He understood enough though, he assumed. Children were very intuitive and in tune with their emotions and those around them. Children easily felt it when there was something going on or, in that case, if someone harbored bad feelings towards them. A part of him wanted to yell at Sigurd for saying stuff like this. It was, perhaps, the mob boss in him that wanted to reprimand the little boy but the father in him made him pause.

“No,” Ragnar said at last. “You don't hate him.”

“Yes, I do! I wished he wasn't here!”

“No, Sigurd … you don't mean that. You are just angry because I have been neglecting you lately. And I apologize … Just because I spend a lot of time with Ivar doesn't mean I don't love you, right? Your brother is very sick, you know that. He just … he needs me a little more than you do. You are a big boy, after all, isn't that right? Big and strong and your baby brother needs a lot of help.”

“I need you too!” Sigurd growled.

“I know,” Ragnar said. “I know you do, Munchkin, and I’m sorry. I love you, you know that, right?” Sigurd nodded at last though he still looked petulant. “What you did was very bad though. What if we wouldn't have found your brother? He could have gotten seriously hurt, Sigurd, you know that. He could have had an asthma attack in that closet. You cannot do something like this, do you understand?”

Now he truly looked miserable as he looked at his baby brother at last who had finally fallen asleep in Ragnar’s arm. Carefully, Sigurd extended one hand to carefully take one of Ivar’s tiny hands. “I’m sorry, Ivar...”

※※※※※※※

The tranquility of his evening was shattered as yelling wafted through the house. Usually, Ragnar would just ignore it. His boys were old enough to handle their own fucking fights. He didn't need to get involved in their petty dramas. However, as he tried reading the same sentence for the fifth time without being able to make much sense of the report in front of him, he gave up with a groan. Working from home was, in theory, a nice thing but the reality of it looked much different even with his son being adults. Sometimes he would sit in his office, listening to the sounds of the house and think that his pack of wolves had only gotten louder and rowdier with age. Back in the day he could have just picked them up and put distance between them physically until everything would have calmed down but now, with the exception of Ivar, he would not be able to just pick them up and carry them away to force a stop to their fights. 

When he finally gave in and left his office to see what was going on inside his house, he was already fuming. Ubbe was not in Kattegat right now and thus could not be sent out to play mediator. He was dealing with logistics in Tamdrup with Harald and his brother so that they would be prepared just in case their deal with the Brits would go south. With each day that was passing, Ragnar could feel it more and more in his bones that something bad was about to happen and the thought that his children would be involved in all of this made his stomach turn. Hvitserk too was not home yet but should return soon enough. So, just by process of elimination, he knew which of his boys were fighting, and, frankly, he was getting tired of it. Of course, he had known that it would be troublesome having Sigurd pair up with Ivar and teach the youngest the ways of their business but there just was no reason for them to yell at each other at the top of their lungs like petty children.

“Sigurd give it back!” He heard Ivar yell but his voice lacked its usual volume and sounded more wheezing like anything else. “Give it back!”

“Come and get it, cripple!” Sigurd replied sharply and Ragnar felt anger boiling inside of him. He was not one to coddle his children. The real world was cruel and they had to learn that eventually. He had never held back in saying what he thought, saying what he knew the world would think. Ivar was a cripple. That was what people thought when they would see him even before they would know his ailments. To the people outside of their family, Ivar was nothing but a cripple and he would face hatred and ridicule and abuse from the outside world if Ragnar would ever allow him to leave this house. Yet, inside their house, the word cripple was the one word his children were never allowed to use. Sigurd’s words aimed to hurt his brother, as they always did, and they never failed to hit the mark.

“Sigurd!” He sounded even worse now and Ragnar quickened his step accordingly.

Sigurd only cackled in response to his brother’s fury. Ragnar found them in the living room. Ivar’s wheelchair lay discarded on its side. It was rare that he would be using it inside the house anyway. Only when he was having a bad day he would rely on the extra help. One of the wheels was still spinning as if he had just fallen out of the chair. He was on the floor, struggling to reach his brother Sigurd who jumped away from him whenever Ivar was close to reaching him. His older son was still in his slacks and dress shirt waving something over his head and looking like an overdressed toddler while he did. No adult man wearing a business outfit should look like a gleeful child while tormenting his brother. It would have been funny too if Ragnar would not have realized then that Sigurd was holding Ivar’s inhaler over his head while his little brother was wheezing and desperately trying to get to him.

“Sigurd!” He thundered and, at the surprise, Sigurd actually dropped the inhaler. He would have expected Ivar to lunge for it but instead, the boy went in on the attack, leaping forward, closing his strong arms around Sigurd’s legs, and toppling his tormentor. When Sigurd was on the ground he was fair game for Ivar who began pounding his fist into Sigurd’s stomach before an earnest struggle started to take place on the ground. They were scuffling like dogs, shouting and yelling, scratching, biting, pulling hair - all the while Ivar seemed on the verge of an asthma attack and forgetting all about his plight as it seemed.

“Enough!” He yelled as he went in and broke up the fight between his two youngest boys. “Enough of that! What the hell is going on between you guys?” Sigurd quickly crawled away from his brother while Ivar remained coughing and wheezing on the ground, gasping for breath before Ragnar quickly picked up his inhaler, crouched down in front of Ivar, and pressed it to Ivar’s mouth. Ivar breathed in the medicine greedily and quickly took the inhaler from his with trembling fingers. “What the hell, Sigurd? Your brother is sick! You can not take his inhaler from him like this, are you crazy? Do you actually want to kill him?”

The way Sigurd pulled his upper lip back in a sneer and bared his teeth in disgust spoke volumes. Yet, Ragnar did not believe that he wanted to kill his baby brother nor that he truly wanted to see him harmed in any way whatsoever. It was just fury that had overtaken him and Ragnar would bet his left testicle on the fact that Ivar was not wholly innocent in all that either. Knowing his youngest child he had done plenty to provoke his older brother.

“I expect an answer, Sigurd!”

“He is a fucking pervert!” Sigurd then shot back reminding Ragnar painfully of the fact that Sigurd too was only a teenager still. “He took my phone and asked my girlfriend to send nudes so he could jerk off or something!” A cruel grin appeared on Sigurd’s face at that. “I mean if he could jerk off, of course!” He then cackled and, with a growl, Ivar once again tried leaping at him only for Ragnar to hold him back by his shirt. 

“I’m going to kill you!” Ivar yelled back, spit flying everywhere, his skin red with anger and embarrassment and exhausted all the same. Rarely had Ragnar ever seen him this furious even though Ivar had always had a short fuse and always easily portrayed his anger and fury towards others. Ivar only stopped himself because he was running out of breath again and had to pull himself against the sofa to lean back and get his breathing and his heart-rate back under control.

“I told you,” He turned to Sigurd with a dark glare. “To _teach_ your brother - not to kill him or start stupid fights for petty reasons like this.”

“ _Petty reasons?_ ” Sigurd erupted shrill. “He looked at my girlfriend naked, Dad!”

“As did many others,” Ragnar huffed. “We all know how you met her, Sigurd. I don't think that Ivar has not seen anything that at least half of Norway has not seen already.”

“He doesn't respect me and my privacy, Dad!”

“Of course not,” Ragnar smirked. “He is your little brother, after all. Keeping you on your toes is his job.”

“Stop defending him!” Sigurd then yelled. “You are always defending him! Poor little Ivar! Poor defenseless, crippled, sick, little Ivar! He did something wrong and I confronted him about it!”

“As you have every right to!” No longer was he smirking as his voice came out in a low growl. “You do right to not let him walk all over you, Sigurd. But remember that he is still your brother. You can confront him all you want but you are not going to fight him and you will never do something like kicking him out of his wheelchair or stealing his inhaler ever again, am I understood? Otherwise, you will be freed of your responsibilities and stripped of the privileges this family offers you - and then we will see how long it will take Margrethe to move on to the next guy. You are brothers and both of you should fucking start acting like it. You are not a child anymore, Sigurd! Stop acting like one! And you, Ivar-” He looked at his youngest with fury in his eyes. “You are grounded for the rest of the month. You will not leave your room and you will never touch your brother’s possessions ever again, clear?”

“But-”

“Go to your room now or I’m going to lose my shit! It's no surprise that your brothers have enough of you and our antics! Maybe this punishment will help you finally reevaluate what you are doing and how you are treating others and finally change how you act! You want more responsibility and be a part of the business? Then stop acting like a petulant child!” Ivar did not look back at him, staring instead at his useless feet, his bottom lips trembling but too prideful to let a tear slip. “Sigurd, you are going to help him back to his room now and I don't want to hear anything else from both of you for the rest of the day.”

Sigurd nodded submissively as he walked over to Ivar’s wheelchair, put it upright again, and rolled it over to his brother. Ivar was still sitting where he was as Sigurd came over to help him but Ivar quickly slapped his brother’s hands away. Sigurd clenched his jaw, undoubtedly biting back another slew of insults as he stood by and watched how Ivar was pulling himself back into his chair and maneuvering himself out of the room seconds later.

He felt rotten as he later sat in his office, still pouring over those contracts and reports in front of him. Hours had gone by since the incident and the house was blissfully quiet ever since. Still, a part of him felt horrible for what he had done. Ivar was lashing out against everyone more and more often lately and Ragnar could not quite help but seek blame for this behavior in himself. It was hard for him to be around the boy so he tried to stay away as much as possible. Ivar was infuriating with his petty crimes, his generally unpleasant behavior, and his desire to always seek out fights with his family. He was often cruel and sadistic which would make him a great player in the world of organized crime, of course, but made him also a pain in the ass to be around. 

It was already late and dark out as he finally gave up and left his office again. Surely a glass of whiskey would take his mind off of everything. As he strolled down the hallway from his office to the living room, he noticed light coming from the corridor Ivar’s room was located in. That should by no means be strange but this hour of the night it was usually dark in that wing of the house. Like a moth that was drawn to a flame, Ragnar found himself drawn towards the light as well. Shortly after, he realized that Ivar’s door was open and that light was pouring out into the dark corridor. Annoyed that Ivar had already gone against Ragnar’s punishment, he walked over and paused only as he could hear a soft voice and quiet sobs coming out of the room. If he did not know that Ubbe was not anywhere near Kattegat, he would assume it was his second son comforting Ivar but as he came closer, he heard, to his surprise, Hvitserk’s voice talking silently to Ivar. He had not even heard him returning to the house, so engrossed he had been in his work. 

“I’m sure he didn't mean to hurt you,” Hvitserk muttered and Ragnar could not help but imagine him sitting next to his brother on Ivar’s large bed, rubbing his back, or putting an arm around him perhaps. “You shouldn't have done this shit, though. Why did you do it? Just to fuck with him?”

“It's the only way anyone pays attention to me.” This answer didn't surprise only Hvitserk. It left Ragnar baffled and quiet for a moment. “You are all doing your own shit, living your own life … Dad is almost never home and when he is he never talks to me. All I have is my books and my computer. Not even the employees pay any attention to me. Even when I talk to them they ignore me or quickly leave the room.”

“Because you stabbed Maggy in the foot that one time.”

“She didn't answer me when I asked her something,” Ivar replied but he didn't sound petulant, just exhausted and perhaps even a little disheartened. “Everyone only looks at me when I fuck with someone. Not even my physiotherapist really talks to me.”

“Just because you are lonely does not mean you can invade Sigurd’s privacy like that and ask his girlfriend to send nudes. I mean, imagine how she might feel when she finds out that you were jerking off to her.”

“I didn't,” Ivar growled. “I just asked her to see how easy it would be. It was very easy, as it turned out. Even if I wanted to, you know I can't. I like Margrethe. She’s pretty - but she would never look at me anyway. No one would ever look at me like that.”

“We could always buy you a hooker.” A small, mirthless little laugh escaped Ivar that sure enough sounded more like a sob than anything else. “You don't need to be such an asshole all the time so that we pay attention to you, Chipmunk. We love you - even Sigurd loves you.”

Ivar scoffed but he did not say anything in return for a while. “Dad hates me, though,” He then said quietly. “He locks me in here, doesn't allow me to leave and see the world or even be a part of the family and then he gets angry when I am lashing out. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to not lash out when everyone always looks at me like I am this broken, ugly thing crawling on the ground? Sigurd hates me because I killed Mom and Dad hates me because I am a cripple, because I am useless.”

“That's not true,” Hvitserk sighed. “Dad loves you, he just can't show it very well. Listen, I’ll ask him if it would be okay if I would take you to the cinema on Friday, okay? We could watch that new Marvel movie you told me about.”

“I’m grounded…” Ivar’s very petulant answer startled an amused laugh out of Hvitserk and he was surprised as Ivar joined in shortly after. Leave it to Hvitserk to disarm this bomb.

**-End of Chapter 4-**


	5. Chapter 5

His sons’ faces were grim as they sat around the table inside the dining room. For a few moments, the crackling fire was the only thing that could be heard. Everyone inside the room, even Ivar, knew better than to interrupt their father’s thoughts or disrupt the silence. Outside the large panorama windows overlooking the sea, rain was drumming against the glass.

“The Brits declared war on us.” His words were received with silence and the faces of his sons remained calm. No one was surprised. “Apparently, our friend Ecbert had a little accident as his car went off the road somewhere between Winchester and London. Luck had it that the brakes of his Bentley stopped working.”

“Who would have thought something like this would happen?” Ivar scoffed and leaned back in his chair. Ragnar sent a sharp glare his way even though he already knew that this would do very little to shut him up. 

“The situation is serious, Ivar. With Aethelwulf now in charge, we could be facing a long fight over our territories both in Scandinavia and England as well.” He addressed his impertinent son but Ivar just rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“I don't know what the big deal is,” Ivar replied and threw his hands up before he leaned forward again, bracing his hands on the table and sending his father a challenging glare across the table. “If they want war then we will give them war, simple as that. You are not really scared of the Brits, are you, Dad?”

“They have many connections in high places in the English government, Ivar,” Bjorn interrupted his brother sharply. “This war will not be fought with guns blazing in the streets of London or Kattegat. This war will be fought behind the scenes on the stages of the political theater.”

“At least it would have been with Ecbert still at the helm of this ship.” Ragnar agreed with his oldest son. “Aethelwulf on the other hand is a crook. He might be more of the guns-blazing type of leader - his wife, however, seems to have a much different approach. Rumor has it that she had kept an affair with Ecbert for the better part of her marriage to Aethelwulf. What little I heard about Judith, she is a very intelligent woman and learned a lot from Ecbert in terms of leadership and strategy. They are going to try and rob us of our assets, buy their way into the companies we have shares of, and take what is ours.”

“I still don’t get the problem,” Ivar scoffed.

“Of course, you wouldn't,” Sigurd replied with a sharp grin. “You have no idea what this is all about, after all. Father, why is he even here to discuss this?”

“Because he is a part of this family and I want his input,” Ragnar groaned. “We will have to negotiate with Aethelwulf now to clear the air. Also, we need our men on the ground to keep their mouths shut until then. We can not risk any petty gang wars just for cash or territory right now - not if we want the feds to stay off our backs.”

“We could just kill him.”

“And then what?” Ubbe sighed.

“Well, then he would be dead, Ubbe.”

As he watched Ivar, once again he was reminded painfully of himself when he was his age. Ivar was obnoxiously sure of himself, cocky to the point of being annoying, unhinged, and wild without caring for the repercussions. Ragnar remembered his parents being terribly upset when he had married Lagertha when he had been barely twenty years old. His parents had wanted him to marry Aslaug from an early age on and he had defied them and their plans. To this day, he sometimes found himself wondering if his parents had something to do with Lagertha’s death. Now that he had the perspective of a father and the added bonus of his experience, he looked with worry at Ivar and wondered if his own father had felt the same way about him back then. Now he could understand why his father had almost disowned him for marrying Lagertha instead of Aslaug. Ivar was incredibly intelligent but he was also a hot-headed fool. 

“Ivar,” Bjorn said and his brother’s eyes immediately laser-focused on him as a predator would focus on its prey. “Maybe it's about time that you listen to an older, smarter brother and just sit back. This is a learning experience for you now. It is going to teach you how to handle situations like this. It will probably not the last time someone tries to fuck with our empire.”

Ragnar could see the anger blazing in Ivar’s eyes but, instead of throwing a fit, his youngest child leaned back in his chair heavily and crossed his arms in silent defiance. “Teach me then.”

※※※※※※※

**May 2009**

Ivar was screaming at the top of his lungs. Again. He was four years old and had just broken another bone. His thigh bone had snapped in two like it was nothing. By now he was tired of hospitals and doctors. He was tired of the screaming and of the hoopla whenever Ivar broke something. It was not the first time and it would not be the last time. Ubbe had yelled for him at the top of his lungs and of course, Ragnar had come right away only to find Ivar on the floor in his room with Ubbe hovering by his side, his eyes wide in fear and worry, his face pale, while Ivar was screeching at the top of his lungs in agony, his broken bone sticking out of his little leg.

“What happened?” He asked as he rushed over and knelt down beside his son. As he tried touching Ivar, the little guy immediately started lashing out and hitting him, trying to get him to leave him alone. It was a feral, animalistic instinct causing this reaction - Ragnar knew that, but that did not mean that it would not hurt. 

“I don't know!” Ubbe replied panicked, as his other two boys were filtering in, Bjorn on their tail. His oldest son had come over earlier to spend some time with his baby brothers and had dedicated almost three hours building legos with them now. Not for the first time he wished Gyda would be here but his daughter was out of the country for another week doing business over in Great Britain and securing a few more business relationships for her father. Gyda would have certainly had a calming influence on the situation, Bjorn would only further the chaos. 

“Jesus!” Bjorn exclaimed as he saw his little brother on the floor.

“What did you do, Ubbe?” Ragnar turned back to his older son but Ubbe quickly shook his head, tears shooting to his eyes. 

“I didn't do anything!” He replied. “He was already crying when I found him!”

“I told you to watch out for your brother, Ubbe!”

“I left him for two minutes!”

“Guys!” Bjorn went between them. “Guys stop yelling at each other! Ivar needs to go to the hospital.”

At those words, Ivar started screaming even louder, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Obviously, he was not a fan. The only reason why he didn't say so was probably the pain he was in. Right now, Ivar was reduced to a primal state of fear and pain, not even able to form proper words. Ragnar nodded and again tried to grab his son but, once again, Ivar lashed out at him. He did not lash out, however, at Bjorn as his son crouched down to pick him up.

“I call Floki,” Ragnar said, tearing his eyes from the sight of Bjorn holding his little brother. It was like someone was stabbing a dagger into his heart. “Ubbe, you will watch your brothers until Floki will be here, okay?” Ubbe just nodded, still with tears in his eyes, and not for the first time he felt guilty. Ubbe was only ten years old. He knew that he was putting too much onto Ubbe at times but only because he was certain that his son would be able to handle it. He would never put something on him that he thought might be too much. 

It hurt to see how Ivar was snuggling into Bjorn, searching for comfort in his big brother’s arms instead of his father’s. Even as they were in the hospital and waiting on Ivar’s doctor, Ivar was still in Bjorn’s arms, sitting on his lap while they were waiting. The poor little guy had to be in absolute agony but at least he was no longer screaming - mainly because he had gotten hoarse. When the doctor finally came to take care of the little guy, Ragnar was sent out of the room because Ivar wanted Bjorn to stay to hold his hand and not his father. 

“Don't be angry, Dad,” Bjorn later said as Ivar was in the OR to get his leg fixed again. “He is a baby.”

“He is four,” Ragnar huffed.

“I know,” Bjorn chuckled. “But he is in pain and doesn't think straight.”

“I know, I know,” He breathed out and dragged a hand down his face. “It's hard.” He then confessed to his oldest son. Bjorn put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know, Dad,” He sighed. “Especially with his condition … I can't even imagine how hard it must be to live with a little boy with so many problems.”

“He is always in pain,” Ragnar agreed. “And he is always angry because he can not do what his brothers are doing. It is frustrating for him and then he lashes out because he does not know what else to do. And I can't do anything about it either. I can only sit and watch him suffer. I feel like the worst father ever. I mean … I should be able to help my son, shouldn't I? But I can not make it better. He already hates me because he thinks his dad doesn't want to help him."

"He doesn't hate you-"

"He won't even let me touch him!"

"He is _four_ , dad." Bjorn squeezed his shoulder in reassurance but that did little to ease the burden. “He is four years old and in pain and afraid.”

He knew all of that and still the feelings he had remained. “Lately,” He then said. “I am actually looking forward to staying out of the house as much as possible. Spending time with Ivar is not easy and more often than not I find myself trying to avoid it altogether.”

Bjorn was silent for a moment and for the first time, Ragnar felt like he had told his oldest son too much. He had always been able to confide in both Bjorn and Gyda when it came to the things concerning their little brothers. Sometimes, Bjorn was more like his friend than his son. He was his rock in the stormy sea that was the life he was leading, while Gyda was his compass, always reminding him of what the right thing was.

“That still does not make you a bad father,” Bjorn replied with a small sigh. “It just makes you human, Dad.”

※※※※※※※

It was rare for Ragnar to return home within the week before nightfall. It had been a slow day at the office, however, and so he had left Bjorn in charge of whatever paperwork had to be done for the day. His mind was occupied with other things, anyway. He knew that the only one home should be Ivar and was overcome by the sudden desire to have a talk with his youngest and most troubled son to hopefully get their problems sorted out at last. He walked to his room but did not find the boy there. Slowly, he walked through the house, asking a maid if she had seen the boy and she finally directed him to the gym.

It was not unusual in any way to find Ivar inside the gym. His son always bitched about not having anything else to do and since his bones were already weak and brittle, he could not risk getting fat and putting more strain on them - otherwise, he would just spend his days playing video games and eating junk food. The gym was located on the first floor in the west wing of the building. It used to be in the basement when Ragnar had first installed it with a couple of exercise machines but a few years ago they had it moved to the first floor so that it was accessible to Ivar without much hassle - even though that boy did not let himself get stopped by stairs.

Moving the gym to the first floor had actually prompted Ragnar to have the whole room refurbished. Now it had big windows leading into the garden and overlooking the pool. Like the rest of the house, it was modern, sleek, and clean looking - Ubbe said it looked sterile but what did Ubbe know about interior design anyway? As much as Ragnar loved rich woods and warm colors for his home, his gym, he wanted to look sleek and sterile.

The door of the room was open as it mostly was and he could hear his son’s labored breathing coming from inside. Ragnar had forbidden him from doing bench presses without anyone there to supervise him but he also knew that, when he would look into the room, he would see exactly that because that awful boy could never follow any rules.

He approached the gym silently and took great care that Ivar would not be able to spot him right away so that he would be able to catch him red-handed if he was once again defying his father’s rules. It was petty, sure, but it was still his fatherly right. He stopped next to the door so that he could easily look into the room without being seen straight away. He was surprised to see that Ivar was not in fact doing bench presses, though.

He found his boy _standing_ in between the parallel bars that Ubbe liked to use to train his arms and shoulders without weights. Ivar was grabbing the bars to each side of him so hard that his knuckles had turned white, his brows were furrowed in concentration, his jaw clenched as he strained to hold himself up. Ivar had exceptional upper body strength and Ragnar was confident that he would be able to take on Sigurd and Hvitserk easily when it came just to the upper body strength. He had to be strong to maneuver his wheelchair through the house or crawl on his hands through rooms and up the stairs. He was fast too. 

At first, Ragnar was sure that he was copying Ubbe’s exercises at the parallel bars to build up even more muscle and bulk out a bit more around his shoulders and chest but then he heard something drag over the ground and realized that Ivar was actually dragging his feet over the ground, adjusting the grip on the bars as he slowly moved forward and towards the end. He was walking. Or at least he was trying to walk. He had seen the little guy try to walk before. Growing up, Ivar had been frustrated with his body and tried again and again to walk. After all, it was not like he was physically unable to walk. It was just that his legs would not support him, that his bones were too weak and could easily snap under the pressure he was putting on them when he would try to stand. 

He watched, amazed how Ivar was doing another step forward, his left knee slightly bending as he did, his right leg - the more damaged of the two - remaining almost stiff and needing to be dragged behind him. But he was walking. It was slow and certainly painful judging by the face he made now that he deemed himself alone. Ivar breathed out harshly as he made his next step but then his left knee gave in and he slammed into the ground hard. Ragnar held his breath, expecting to hear Ivar cry out in pain from yet another shattered kneecap or a broken bone but nothing like that happened. Ivar remained on the ground for a moment, his eyes still clasped around the bars to each side. He wanted to go inside and help him but before he could make that decision, his son heaved himself up again on his feet with a guttural groan that left his mouth in the process. He was already wheezing as he made it back onto his feet but that did not stop him as he began moving forward again.

Ragnar could not help but feel pride bloom inside his chest as he watched Ivar reach the end of the parallel bars. As he reached the end Ivar stopped for a brief moment to take a deep breath and then slowly lowered himself to the ground again, crawled over to one of the mats on the floor, and sank down on it to relax and catch his breath. His son was a fighter, always had been. There was no question about it and yet seeing it like that filled him with pride and excitement. 

Finally, after a moment of hesitation, Ragnar finally stepped into the room and drew his son’s attention. “That was quite dangerous what you just did,” Ragnar said. A part of him cursed himself. He was so proud and yet he couldn't quite help it. He knew that Ivar needed a hard hand. His son had always needed tough love and he wouldn't get it from Ubbe or Bjorn, so if that meant he needed to play bad cop just so that his son would harness his full potential then that was what he would do. He watched Ivar’s lips curl in annoyance as he slowly sat up on his mat and scowled at his father. “You could have broken a bone.”

“I am not made out of glass, Dad!”

“Not out of _glass_ , no,” Ragnar replied gruffly as he walked closer towards his boy. “but you have an illness, Ivar, you know that.”

“I have not broken a bone for almost two years!”

“That does not mean it won’t happen when you pull stunts like this all alone. At least tell someone and take someone with you to help if necessary. What if you had shattered your kneecap again just now? Huh? No one would have heard you yell for help from here and then you would be stuck with _two_ useless legs in the future. You need to be more careful, Ivar. I understand that you want to act like you are normal but you never will be, so-”

“ _I am!_ ” Ivar suddenly yelled and threw his water bottle at his father. Luckily for Ragnar, his reflexes were still quick otherwise the bottle would have hit him straight in the eye. “Normal!” Ivar’s eyes flashed with so much anger that Ragnar would have taken a step back if he were a lesser man. He was no lesser man, though, and he too could get furious in a matter of seconds. With two strides he had bridged the distance between himself and his son to grab Ivar hard by his trembling shoulders. His body was a livewire of fury under his father’s hands.

“No, you are not,” He said in a low voice, trying his best not to let his own anger bleed through. Ivar was breathing heavily through his teeth as Ragnar leaned in close. “Once you realize that, that is when greatness will happen.” The boy flinched and shook him off and Ragnar allowed him this bit of freedom, painfully reminded again how often his little son had lashed out at him growing up. “And now go. I don't want you in here alone. It's too risky.” 

Ivar let out a frustrated growl, threw himself off the mat, and started crawling towards the door just as his brother Bjorn appeared in the doorway. His oldest son looked at him and then at his little brother, confusion clearly written all over his face. He was too slow to get out of his baby brother’s way so Ivar punched him in the leg hard and then crawled past Bjorn.

“What's the matter with him?” Bjorn asked, pointing over his shoulder but not all that bothered about his brother’s attack. “Did you have a fight again? Geez, Dad! Give him a break, okay? He’s trying his best!”

“What do you want?” He cut his son off. Bjorn was not exactly Ivar’s biggest supporter - not since the little guy had hit puberty - but he was still protective over him, if not nearly as much as Ubbe was.

Understanding that he would not get a proper answer out of his father, Bjorn let out a sigh and then dragged a hand over his face. “We have a situation. The Brits attacked our ring in Whitechapel and stole 80% of our goods. As far as I am concerned, Aethelwulf just declared war on us.”

※※※※※※※

The hot water did wonders to soothe his aching muscles and bones. He would never admit it in front of his father or, god forbid, his brothers, but he knew that he had overexerted himself today. He also knew that he would not make progress if he would not push his limits. Lying in the bathtub, soaking in steaming hot water, felt absolutely heavenly right now as he leaned his head back and stared idly at the white ceiling above him. He was happy to have his own bathroom where he could do what the fuck he wanted without bothering anyone - not that he would care much about bothering anyone usually. Still, his family, mostly Sigurd, Hvitserk, and his father, always gave him the feeling that he was an inconvenience when he was around. So, in a way, he was glad to be down here but the louder part of his brain, that dark, bitter voice in the back of his head, reminded him constantly that he was only down here because that way he was out of the way and would not remind his father of his presence. More often than not it was lonely down here. More often than not he felt isolated down here, cast out, rejected by his family.

He remembered waking up from nightmares when he was little with no way of going to his dad or Ubbe for comfort. Hell, he would have even accepted Hvitserk as comfort in times of need. He remembered waking up being in pain with no way to ask for help from his family. His only option had always been to crawl into the lobby and scream really loud so that, hopefully, someone would wake up. He had always woken up the entire house, leaving the staff and especially his brothers disgruntled and annoyed with him, Sigurd saying that he was doing it for attention. He couldn't blame them. Bitterly he stared at the space where his legs were hidden underneath the bubbles. He couldn't stand looking at them. They were a minefield of scars and bumps. He had lost count of how many screws and bolts and metal plates were keeping his bones together. If he would ever go through a metal detector, he would certainly start lighting up like a Christmas tree. 

Not for the first time, Ivar thought about running away from this place. The sad thing about that was that not even running away was an option for him. It was not his legs preventing him from leaving the house and the perimeter, either. It was his own mind keeping him back, holding him hostage. Not a day went by without him wondering if things would get better, hoping that his father would finally accept him and treat him like he would treat his big brothers. Maybe tomorrow Ragnar would not look at him like he was nothing but the dirt under his expensive Italian leather shoes. Maybe tomorrow his brothers would not look at him with unbridled pity in their eyes every time they would catch sight of him.

Not for the first time, Ivar stared at the razor that was lying on his sink - within arm’s reach - thinking about how easy it would be to pop out the razor blade and put it to use on himself. His legs were already littered with scars, what would one more even matter? Or, if he wouldn't be so much of a coward, he could use it to finally deliver his family from the evil living in the house, from the monster living hidden away on the first floor. Not for the first time, Ivar wondered how long it would take his family to find him, lying in this bathtub, the water red with his own blood.

“Ivar?” He always left the bathroom door open, after all, he had no reason to close it. He was alone down here and the bathroom was an en-suite. The voice came from the hallway in front of his room. “Ivar!” There was no knocking before his bedroom door opened and Ubbe’s head popped up from behind it. “Ives?”

He hated it when his brothers would call him that. It was better than ‘Gremlin’, he supposed, and certainly better than ‘Chipmunk’. 

“In here!” He called back but made no move to get out of the tub or hide himself further. There was nothing his whole family had not been privy to before. The truth was, having Ubbe here came as a godsend. His bathroom was wheelchair accessible but he had demanded a bathtub a few years ago because it helped with his pain. The problem in that was that while he could easily maneuver himself into the tub, he always had a hard time getting out of it. Mostly it ended with him lying face-first on the ground like a fish out of water and he was always glad when no one was around to see his disgrace. Today, however, his arms felt heavy and strained after his exercise and he just wanted to sleep forever.

Ubbe came over and into the bathroom without hesitations. “Ivar the little mermaid,” Ubbe hummed, grabbed his wheelchair, and sat down in it as if it was the normal thing to do. Not that Ivar would care. He hated this fucking chair with a burning hot passion anyway. “Bad day?”

“Mhm,” He hummed, leaned back again, and closed his eyes slightly as if there was not another man inside the room while he was trying to relax butt-naked in the bathtub. 

“Where does it hurt?” A scoff was enough of an answer, Ivar assumed as he opened his eyes again to look at his brother, a bitter, yet amused smile tugging at his lips. “I see,” Ubbe hummed in response. “Bjorn told me you had a fight with Dad again earlier. He heard you guys yell at each other in the gym. What happened?”

“What happened?” Ivar repeated indignantly. “The same that always happens, Ubbe! He treated me like a baby! Like I was made out of glass!”

“Well, technically-”

“Ubbe, I would advise you to think very carefully about your next words. I might not have a weapon on me right now, but I would be perfectly able to strangle you with a towel.”

Ubbe laughed at that and threw up his hands in surrender. “Tell me about it,” He then sighed, smacking his hands down on his thighs. “Tell Dr. Ubbe all about it.”

He rolled his eyes before letting his head fall back again and staring at the ceiling. “I was just doing my own shit when he barged in and reprimanded me like he always does.”

“Did you do bench presses again without supervision?”

“No … I just tried … well … walking.”

“What?”

“Yeah … I use the parallel bars.” Thankfully the water was so hot that his skin was red anyway, otherwise, Ubbe would have noticed the blush that was creeping up on him. “To walk. It's not like I am unable to walk, after all! I just … I want to get better at it, stronger.”

“Ivar-”

“I know that I will never be able to really walk without help, Ubbe,” He groaned. “I know that. But I hate sitting in this chair, I hate crawling around like a snake or a worm. I hate being looked down on. I hate how dad looks at me when I’m on the ground or in that chair. I just want to be normal. But Dad saw me and flipped his shit, telling me that I could have broken something again and how dangerous this was, and … at that moment I wanted to kill him. I felt so good after I just managed to walk those couple of steps and he managed to destroy that again by just being there and being angry at me.”

“He is worried.”

“He is _ashamed_ of me, Ubbe.” He shot back with a glare. “And don't even try to say that this is not the case because we all know it is. He is ashamed of me. To him, the great Ragnar Lothbrok, I am nothing but a disgrace. You can say it. It's okay.”

Ubbe was silent for a long moment and that was really all the confirmation that he needed. “I remember,” Ubbe then started quietly, his voice low and his eyes focused on that stupid little rubber duck that Hvitserk had brought him for his bathtub - it was dressed as a fierce Viking, of course, and sat on the edge of his sink, proudly overlooking the scene. “When you were born, Dad almost never left the hospital. I was six and didn't really understand what was going on, but I had to look after Hvitty and Sigurd all the time. Gyda and Bjorn were almost always with us and Dad only came home when he had no other choice. We barely saw him for the entire month you were in the hospital. He only came home for mom’s funeral and he left right after. I think, if it would have been acceptable in the public eye, he would not even have come to the funeral but there were hoards of paparazzi and news stations reporting on it so he had no other choice. He had Sigurd on his arms and held Hvitty’s hand while the press was taking photos of it with their fucking telephoto lenses from afar. The photos were all over the news and newspaper just hours later when Dad was already back at your side. He was terrified to leave you at the hospital. He told me that a few years ago. Remember when you had this really bad fall? You were determined to walk down the stairs and Sigurd spurred you on, that little bastard, but then you fell because your legs didn't support you long enough. You fell headfirst down the stairs and Sigurd was in hysterics. He thought you were dead. I never heard him scream like this. Everywhere was blood and you were in the OR for hours.”

“How could I forget?” Ivar huffed. “Broken jaw, broken pelvis, broken arm … I lost count of how many bones I broke that day. My jaw was wired shut for eight weeks.”

“Yeah,” Ubbe sighed. “You were twelve. And Dad didn't leave your side while you were at the hospital. That's when he told me how he used to be afraid of you dying while he was not there to watch you. That was why he rushed back to the hospital just two hours after mom’s funeral. He was so afraid that he would arrive at the hospital only to be told that you had died. He said to me that, if you would die, if it was God’s will, at least he wanted you to die in his arms so that you would know that you were loved.” 

Ubbe was silent again for a minute before he dared to speak up again. His other brothers couldn't see it because Ivar was a great showman but Ubbe knew how low his self-esteem really was, how much of a toll their father’s behavior took on Ivar. Sometimes, knowing that Ubbe knew was scary to him. It meant his big brother knew his weak spot and would be able to use it against him.

“Dad loves you, Ivar. I would go as far as to say that he loves you more than the rest of us. That is why he gets so angry with you. He sees you do something risky and he flips his shit, he can't be rational, because he starts panicking. You don't want to hear it but you are his baby and you will remain his baby even when you are old as fuck. He raised you all by himself, after all. He got up in the middle of the night to change your diapers or feed you, bathed you, and cuddled with you. I remember him carrying you around everywhere he went. He always had you with him in this stupid baby sling like he was a kangaroo mom or something.” Ubbe breathed out a laugh. “I think the biggest problem that you guys have is that you are so similar. Dad sees himself in you and that scares him.”

He didn't know what to say to this. It was not like Ubbe told him this story and everything would magically be better. Ubbe could not erase years of neglect and sadness and loneliness with just this little story. So, he kept quiet for a moment before he sat up and extended his arms to his brother. Ubbe understood him without words, so his brother got up from the wheelchair, came over to the tub, and leaned down so that Ivar could wrap his arms around his neck. Ubbe easily hoisted him up, grabbed a towel from the heated towel rag, and wrapped it securely around his hips. It would be strange if it wouldn't be Ubbe. A moment later, he was sitting in his wheelchair and Ubbe helped him back into his bedroom and, ultimately into his bed. 

“You are allowed to ask for help, you know that, right?” Ubbe mused as he helped him into a pair of sweatpants and, despite his struggles, into a pair of warm socks. His feet were always ice blocks but he hated wearing socks to bed because he lost them anyway during the night and it was such a hassle finding them again.

“I know,” Ivar huffed. “I am not a helpless baby though.”

“Yeah you are,” Ubbe mocked. “And if you don't behave I am putting you on top of the fridge again.”

**-End of Chapter 5-**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick head's up: The first scene of this chapter is a flash-forward! Don't be confused <3

Screams were wafting through the cellar, a lonely lightbulb was flickering ominously, the smell of iron and sweat hung in the air, filling his nostrils. Adrenalin was rushing through his veins as he raised his fist again and slammed his already bruised knuckles into the already bloody face in front of him. He was a man in his fifties with six grown children. Long gone were the days of him acting as an enforcer, of an executioner. Long gone were the days of him getting his hands dirty with another man’s blood. It was not like he was afraid to do it or that he did not like this part of the job. It was more the fact that, when you reach a certain status in your organization when you reach a certain age, you no longer need to do the dirty work yourself and you look much more frightening and intimidating when you stay calm and send the dogs after your opponent. His dogs, in this case, stood by, lined up in a half-circle behind him. Hvitserk was holding onto the bat that Ragnar had used to shatter the man’s kneecaps and his other three sons were ready to rip the man in front of them limb from limb at Ragnar’s command.

“I am asking you this one last time, my friend,” Ragnar said as he leaned down to be at eye level with the man, his voice sweet as honey as he spoke. He grabbed a fistful of reddish hair and stared intently into brown eyes. “Where is my son?”

“I don't know anything!” The man breathed out, his voice hoarse and heavy with pain, blood clinging to his teeth. “I don't know your son!”

for a moment, Ragnar stared at him, enjoyed seeing him shiver in fear before he patted his cheek and said: “I know.” He straightened his back and took a step away from the man. He could see hope flicker through his eyes before Ragnar turned away. 

“Ubbe,” He said. “Teeth.”

※※※※※※※

**April 2016**

The first time Ivar tried to run away from home, the little guy was five years old. He had grabbed his favorite plush - a shark that was bigger than the boy himself which Bjorn had bought him at IKEA of all places to celebrate Ivar’s Swedish heritage -, stuffed all his belongings into his little backpack - namely his favorite book, some candy, and socks -, and crawled through the house, out through the back door into the garden. His great escape had been stopped by the fence that was securing the perimeter. Instead of coming back inside, Ivar had hidden out in the bushes instead until Ragnar had found him there and brought him back inside. Of course, Ivar had not been a fan of that decision. His reasoning for his escape plan had been sound, however. Another fight with Sigurd.

The second time, Ivar had tried to run away from home, he was eight and his attempt had been slightly more sophisticated. He had made a proper plan this time and even left behind his trusty shark - although probably with a bleeding heart. By the time he was ten, he was finally bigger than his favorite plush. He had grown slower than his big brothers and for a while, Ragnar had been afraid that he would stay small. His brothers, especially Sigurd, had made fun of him for being so small. Even though Sigurd was only two years older than Ivar, he could easily pick him up and then he would place the boy somewhere he could not get down from on his own without hurting himself. 

Once Ragnar had found Ivar sitting on the fridge, furious that he couldn't get down and screaming his lungs out. It turned out the culprit had been Ubbe that time, fed up with his brother annoying him while he had been on the phone with a girl. Despite his more sophisticated plan, his second attempt had been unsuccessful as well because of the weather. It had snowed that night and he had been easy to track in the snow.

Ivar was eleven now and his health plummeting. It was spring but still deathly cold and he had just been down with a nasty fever and a case of pneumonia that had then put him back into the hospital again. He had spent almost the entire last year of his life inside the hospital at that point. Broken bones, issues with his heart, horrible asthma attacks that had rendered the boy unresponsive at times, and then pneumonia to put a nice cherry on top of this delicious cocktail. His immune system was a mess and didn't have much of a chance to get better because every time the little guy seemed able to catch a break, something else would come along. 

Ivar’s illnesses had an effect on everyone inside the household too, of course. Especially, perhaps, on Sigurd. Sigurd was thirteen and had grown resentful of his little brother to the point where Ragnar would not leave them alone together without a nanny to supervise. Sometimes it seemed that Sigurd outright hated him.

“Ivar is gone!” Ubbe came rushing into the living room where Ragnar thought he could enjoy a rare moment of peace in this house and watch a soccer game. He looked at his boy with raised brows and little alarm in his heart. Ivar, though not as mobile as his brothers, was fast and much harder to keep track of than his brothers. Sometimes Ragnar had idly mused if it would count as child abuse if he would put a harness and a leash on the boy or plant a tracker under his skin. 

“What?” Ragnar asked around the burger he had brought home from a drive-through. He too was only a man and a man had needs. Until now, he still clung to the desperate hope that he would actually get to enjoy his meal too. Ubbe’s face was alarmed as he stared at him.

“He’s gone!” He repeated urgently. Ubbe was almost seventeen now and already taller than his father. Right now, however, the teenager looked more like a lost little boy. “His window is open and some of his things are gone! His … his jacket and shoes and … Dad! Come on get your ass off that couch! We need to go looking for Ivar, it's raining cats and dogs outside!”

“He is probably somewhere on the premises,” He was quick to disregard his son’s panic. Ubbe tended to panic when something pertained to his baby brother. By now, Ragnar had forgone all illusions about the fact that Ubbe was much more of a father figure to Ivar than Ragnar had ever been. “Don't worry, he’ll come back inside when he realizes that he won’t get very far.”

“Dad! It's serious! I think this time he really managed to run away! The gate in the garden is wide open! He might have gone into the woods. There are _wolves_ in those woods, Dad!”

“He has not gone into the woods, Ubbe,” Ragnar sighed but finally put his burger down, very well aware that he would not see it again if he would leave it unattended for longer than five minutes. He was living in a house with three teenage boys, after all. They were the wolves he was concerned about. He had never known that growing boys could eat so much food.

“Dad, he just got out of the hospital!” Ubbe urged once more as if he honestly had to remind his father of that. As if Ragnar had not stayed up every night that Ivar had been at the hospital, sitting next to the phone, worrying that he might get a call that the worst had happened. “He’s sick, come on now!” 

“Okay, okay!” He groaned and got up from the couch. He betted five bucks against himself that Hvitserk would pop up from behind a plant or a vase to devour his food the moment he stepped out of the living room. Animals. All of them. “What even happened? Why do you think he ran off?” He asked, following Ubbe into the foyer before they walked out through the garden door into the garden. Ubbe did not seem to have the same concerns to shield himself from the rain and Ragnar would not remind him. He was old enough to know what he was doing.

“We had a fight,” Ubbe bit out begrudgingly. Well, now _that_ was a surprise indeed.

“A what now?”

“A fight.”

“You and Ivar?” Ragnar asked with raised brows. 

Ubbe just rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I know, I know, spare me with your stupid jokes!” He snarked back. “Focus on finding your son.”

"No, now I am curious,” Ragnar replied as he and his son hurried out into the rainstorm. “Ivar never behaves unless he is with you so what did the little devil do this time?"

"I hit him, okay?" Ubbe growled. "I punched him in the face because he was being a brat and then he acted as if something was wrong with his heart again. I panicked! I thought he was having a heart attack! And then this demon spawn started laughing! So, I punched him!"

He looked miserable as he looked at his father while they were hurrying across the lawn. He could see Hvitserk and Sigurd waiting near the gate for them and was not surprised that Ubbe had apparently alarmed his baby brothers of the situation as well. Unlike Ragnar and Ubbe they were at least wearing their bright raincoats while Ragnar was already wet to the core as the rain was pummeling down on him. Maybe not the wolves were the danger Ivar was facing out there but the rain. He imagined his son crawling through the underbrush only for the ground to give and a mudslide to wash him away and break all his bones in the process. Wolves were howling in the distance, urging the men to move on. The iron gate was open like a bleeding wound as Ragnar caught up with his sons and barged through into the woods that started right behind that very gate.

It was obvious that Sigurd was pissed about having to seek his brother. That was not that much of a surprise, of course, but at least he was here trying to help. As they dove into the woods, it was almost impossible to see anything. 

“We should go back,” Sigurd moaned after they were out for just a couple of minutes. “Dad! It's of no use! The little prick is not even out here! He’s laughing his ass off about us wandering through the woods like idiots because precious Ivar threw a fit again!”

“Sigurd!” Ubbe hissed. “Shut your mouth and look for our brother! It's dangerous out here and Ivar has no means of protecting himself, so stop being a fucking dick!”

“ _I_ am being a dick?” Sigurd replied loudly. “Ivar is the one being a dick, Ubbe! You know that better than the rest of us!”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“He’s _using_ you all the time and you don't even realize it! You are playing his mom and you think he loves you because of it but he doesn't! He loves no one but himself but you don't see it! He treats you like a slave and now he ran off just to scare you and make you feel bad! He is probably not even out here!”

“Your brother could be in serious danger, Sigurd,” Ragnar growled, fed up with his sons’ constant bickering that only seemed to get worse and worse with each day. “And we need to find him as quickly as possible before he dies out here.”

“What if I don't _want_ to find him?” Sigurd then blurted out. “What if I don't care if he dies?”

“You don't mean that!” Ubbe hissed while even Hvitserk seemed outright shocked at his younger brother’s words. So far, Hvitserk had been smart enough to stay silent, though. Hvitserk rarely got involved in his brothers’ fights anyway. He would sit by and watch in amusement if anything. 

“Yes, I do!” Sigurd yelled and stomped off into the underbrush, deeper into the woods, vanishing in-between the trees. Ragnar did not stop him and neither did Ubbe. 

“Let’s just keep searching,” Ragnar sighed even though Sigurd’s words tore at something primal inside of him. To think that his young son hated his own brother like that was devastating to him and would be to any parent. It had always been his wish that his sons would get along better than he and his own brother. They had needed a whole continent between them to finally put aside their differences.

Soon they split up, started searching in different directions, calling out Ivar’s name but the wind was ripping the sound straight out of his mouth it seemed. The deeper he went into the forest, the more hopeless he started to feel. He did not believe that they would find Ivar alive - not out here, not in this weather.

He lost track of time more and more with each step, his coat and his clothes drenched and heavy. Right as he wanted to grab his phone and tell his sons to head back to the house, he heard someone yell - but it was not Ivar.

“Dad!” The voice called through the woods, panic coloring the sound. “Ubbe! Hvitserk! Come quick!”

He started running without even taking a second to think about what he was doing. He didn't watch the ground either as he ran through the woods, sometimes only narrowly escaping slamming into a tree while branches and thorns were ripping through the exposed skin on his arms and neck. Sigurd kept yelling and soon he heard Ubbe and Hvitserk run beside him. Sigurd’s voice grew louder until he finally spotted the boy crouching on the ground and leaning dangerously far over the edge of a ravine as he was holding onto something for dear life. His heart stopped beating for a second before he rushed over to Sigurd, fell down beside him, and reached over the edge himself. He felt Ivar’s tiny hand before he actually saw the boy.

Ivar had fallen down the ravine and was holding on to Sigurd’s hand with one hand and to a root of one of the large trees around with the other so that he would not plummet. Ragnar reached down, grabbed Ivar’s hand, and together with Sigurd he quickly pulled him back up. Ivar fell against his brother and almost buried Sigurd under his weight but for once Sigurd did not seem to mind. Despite what the little guy had just said a few minutes ago, as he was holding onto Ivar now all his talk about not caring about him seemed forgotten.

A part of him wanted to yell at his youngest son, a part of him even wanted to yell at Ubbe - even though he understood why his older son had reacted in anger in such a way. He could not even begin to claim that he too would not have reacted in such a way to Ivar’s little stunt. However, as Sigurd had Ivar in his arms now, his youngest son was simply miserable, afraid, and bawling his eyes out from the scare he had just gone through. There was no being mad at such a pitiful sight.

Thirty minutes later they were sitting in the living room, changed into dry clothes and, in Ivar’s case, wrapped in a thick blanket, Ubbe’s arm around his shoulder as he was leaning into his big brother’s warmth. All seemed well again between those two and although Ragnar was angry about this latest escape of his youngest child, he could not bring himself to say anything. When Ragnar returned to his pack of wolves, Hvitserk was just offering Ragnar’s half-eaten burger to Ivar. He watched how Ivar took a bite out of it and gave it back to his brother. Animals, he thought, all of them.

※※※※※※※

The house was a mess. There was not a room that had not been turned on its head. Blood on the floor told the story of a deathly struggle. Three of the security guys that were around at all times lay dead in the foyer of the mansion, a cook sprawled on the kitchen floor, a young maid slumped on the stairs with a bullet hole in her forehead. There was nothing that could have prepared Ragnar or his sons for what they would find coming home that day. 

For weeks they had been trying to negotiate some sense into Aethelwulf because, apparently, the man did not understand that he would lose a fight against their forces if he would let it come to it. There had been casualties on both sides in the process, warehouses destroyed, people killed, shipping routes blocked, money lost. As he walked into his house after getting the call that something had happened, he would not have thought it possible that Aethelwulf would attack the heart of Ragnar’s kingdom - not so soon at least. 

“Ubbe, check upstairs. Hvitserk, west wing. Sigurd, go with Hvitserk. Bjorn, basement. I am taking the east wing.” There were no questions from his sons, no discussion or argument because at that moment, Ragnar Lothbrok was not their father but their boss and they knew better than to argue with their boss. 

His sons quickly started running into the ordered directions, their weapons drawn, cautious with each step they would take. He felt uneasy having them explore and check the house when he did not know if the attackers might still be there but his sons could defend themselves, he knew that. They were trained for situations like this. Ragnar had made sure of that while raising them. He took off running into the east wing of the mansion, a clear goal set in his mind, and no need to tell his other sons about it because he knew that they were all thinking the same thing. 

Ivar. 

His youngest son had been home, during the attack and Ragnar held no illusions about him being the target of the attack as well. Aethelwulf knew how many children he had, he knew everything of value about him and he also knew that no one had ever seen the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. He had known that the boy was here - alone. If he would try to make the man budge quickly, he would do the same fucking thing.

He tried not to panic as he pulled his Glock out of the holster under his jacket. He kept his steps measured and even as he quickly and silently moved down the corridor that held his son’s room and even though he wanted to sprint towards Ivar’s door, he checked every room on his way there instead to make sure that no one could get the jump on him when he would put his back to a room. 

He knew enough about situations like this to keep his calm and not act on impulse because that was exactly what his enemy wanted. He wanted him to lose his mind and go running in a blind panic. As Ivar’s door came into sight he noticed two things at once. The first was that Ivar’s door was wide open, the second thing was that there was a foot extending into the hallway. His heart stopped for a beat but even before he was close enough to take stock of the situation he could already tell that it was not Ivar’s foot. 

His boy had no reason to wear heavy combat boots inside the house. His boy was moving around on socks, usually. Hvitserk always made it a point and personal mission to buy the ugliest socks for his baby brother that he could find while Ubbe would sometimes get him anti-slip socks to annoy him even further.

The hallway was silent and so was the room he was approaching. The door of Ivar’s room opened to the inside and not into the hallway so Ragnar was cautious of the possibility that someone might be standing behind the door where he would not be able to see them right away. As he reached the room, he saw a man lying on the ground, face down. The way he was dressed made it clear to Ragnar right away that he was not one of his men but a stranger dressed in a bulletproof vest over an assortment of black cargo pants, black steel-capped combat boots, and a black hoodie. Beside him, a gun lay useless as he was lying in a puddle of his own blood as it seemed. Ragnar quickly crouched down, to feel for the man’s pulse but he didn't find one. He was certainly dead, a knife sticking in his eye as he turned him around. Only then, as he raised to his full height again, did he allow himself to take stock of the room. 

The large windows were splattered with blood and it took Ragnar a second to see another dead body, dressed much the same as the first one lying on the ground close to Ivar’s large walk-in closet. Another knife embedded in another eyeball with perfect precision. For someone who never left the house, his son definitely had a lot of clothes in his possession that he was protecting like a dragon would his treasure. The door to the closet was open, though. Ivar’s bed looked as if he had been lying in it shortly before all of this went down but the mattress was already cold as Ragnar touched it. The bathroom door too was open but no sign of Ivar, only more blood on the ground and the walls. 

Ivar’s room, like the rest of the house, was a complete mess. There had been a struggle, that much was clear. And his boy, it seemed, was gone. Just as Ragnar wanted to turn his back to the room again, he caught a glimpse of Ivar’s mirror standing in the corner diametrically opposed to the bed. For a second he did not realize what he was staring at before he noticed that there were words written in blood on the glass.

_“Warmest regards, A.”_

※※※※※※※

His head hurt. That was the first thing he realized as he came back to it. He felt as if he had been hit by a truck and been left for dead on the fucking pavement. Every bone in his entire body hurt, there seemed to be not an inch of him that was left unscathed by whatever had happened to him. The world around him was pitch black and it took Ivar a second where he was trying to remember if he had opened his eyes at all. He tried to move but quickly realized that he couldn't move much. His hands, he quickly grasped were tied together in front of him just like his feet and then it struck him at last that he couldn't see anything not because it was dark around him but because there was something over his head. His breath hitched in his throat as he remembered bits and pieces of what had happened.

He had been lying on his bed, watching TV as he had had nothing better to do with his time. Everyone had been working, after all. His father had gotten increasingly more agitated and annoyed by the situation with those Brits so he barely saw the man anyway. Suddenly, there had been noise coming from the lobby, shots being fired. It had been instinct as he had switched off the television in his room, grabbed the throwing knives that Bjorn had given him for his last birthday, and quickly escaped the room into his closet. 

Of course, he had known that hiding in the closet was the worst possible idea but he had also known that he had no way of escaping the house without getting seen and possibly shot at. However, when the closet door would get opened, he would have a small window of time to throw his knife at whoever wanted to fuck with him. He remembered striking two men down with his knives and then, a loud bang that almost made his eardrums explode and searing hot pain shooting through him. Someone had yelled in English and then his world had turned dark. 

He had been captured. Fuck. And he could make an educated guess by whom. The real question now was whether or not he was still in Norway or if he had been taken to England. There was no way of knowing for him, of course, since he did not know how long he had been out of commission. 

_Okay_ , he thought, _this is not the time or place for panic, Ivar. Keep calm, take stock of your surroundings, take stock of your injuries._ He took a deep breath at that, filling his greedy lungs with air. He could not panic or otherwise, his body would start revolting again. _Good, first things first: Injuries. I was shot. I remember getting shot._ He couldn't locate the pain from the wound, though. The pain of all of his injuries was bleeding together into one big gulp, a kind of bubble or cloud. What a funny thought. _Maybe I have a concussion, too. I can't think straight, lose track of my own thoughts. I’m not feeling nauseous, though._

Taking stock of his injuries seemed all but impossible under these circumstances. Since he could not distinguish the source of his pain, he would need to actually see the state of his body. Fuck. The same was true for his surroundings for the most part. He couldn't hear much around him. There was a low buzzing sound a little farther away, like an old lightbulb or those bright neon lamps that were used in industrial buildings because they were cheap and kept breaking all the time. If it was a lamp, it was not inside his room, though, because there was not even the hint of light coming through whatever was covering his eyes. He could not feel any airflow on the exposed skin of his hands either. No draft. He was probably underground and far away from any kind of exit that there was no air flowing underneath the door to the room he was in. 

So, all things considered, shouting for help was probably not a viable option either. At best, no one would hear him, at worst, the people holding him captive would hear him and he would draw attention to the fact that he was awake. He knew enough about his father’s business to know what would happen then. They would probably not kill him right away but they would definitely have a bit of fun with him and the thought scared him more than he was willing to admit even to himself. He was a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, after all. He was not supposed to be afraid of anything. He was supposed to be strong, a warrior, a force to be reckoned with. And yet, as he was lying on the cold hard ground of his prison, he was deathly afraid.

※※※※※※※

Two days. Two days without any news and then this asshole that didn't want to talk. Well, now that he no longer had a tongue, there was not much talking anymore anyway. Ragnar Lothbrok was a patient man but when it came to the well-being of his children, his patience was running out quickly every time and without fail.

“Now he can’t tell us anything, Dad,” Sigurd sighed, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“He doesn't need to,” Bjorn said. “We all know that the Brits have Ivar.”

“And yet,” Ragnar growled. “They fail to contact us and make demands!” The last two words came out in a deep, guttural yell that would have made his sons flinch if they were not used to that behavior already.

“They will,” Ubbe said, keeping his voice even and calm as he cleaned the tools he had been using on the poor fucker with a rag. “In time.”

“And until then they could be cutting Ivar limb from limb!” Sigurd hissed at his older brother. It was unusual to see Sigurd worried about his little brother and if the situation would not be as dire, he would be glad to see that he did worry about Ivar. In fact, the moment that he and his sons had realized that their youngest had been taken from their home, Sigurd’s entire demeanor had changed in a matter of seconds. He had been pale and fidgety, and all too willing to get information out of this mangled man in front of them. “We can not wait a day longer, Ubbe! He is in danger! He’s sick! Think about his heart! He could already be dead! Or he could have had an asthma attack already! He’s-”

“Enough of this!” Ragnar barked. Hvitserk was the only one of his boys who had remained silent, gnawing at his thumbnail. “This is exactly what Aethelwulf wants - that we lose ourselves in our panic and run around like headless chickens! We have to stay calm and collected, otherwise, we will not be able to win this war against him and get Ivar back alive.”

And yet, even as he said those words to calm his sons down, he already knew that, if he were Aethelwulf, he would not give Ivar back alive. 

It seemed now a cruel irony that Ivar had been stolen from his own bedroom, the place Ragnar had decided was the safest in the world for his little boy. Ivar’s whole life, Ragnar had made sure that he was safe, even as it meant to lock him inside this house and not allow him to leave and be a normal young man, doing normal things. The world outside had seemed dangerous for Ivar, it had claws and teeth and he had not wanted his son to be out there, to be eaten whole by this mad wonderland out there. And now he felt helpless as he realized that, in the end, he had not been able to protect his son. The only thing he had done was lock Ivar in a cage and make his son hate him for clipping his wings.

**-End of Chapter 6-**


	7. Chapter 7

“My son,” Ragnar said, keeping his voice steady and calm. This was not the situation for panic or high emotions. Over thirty years as the head of the family and his entire life spent in the world of organized crime had taught him that. He who shows his cards has already lost the game. “I would like him back.”

“Oh,” Aethelwulf replied just as calmly. They were facing each other, sitting at a table like civilized men inside Ragnar’s office of all places. “Your son is in good hands. We are friends, after all, and thus, your son is my friend. He is being treated like a prince, my friend.”

“Ah,” Ragnar hummed and leaned back in his chair, the backrest comfortably digging into his spine as he did. “So, as friends, we can talk openly, right?”

“Of course,” Aethelwulf mirrored his body posture perfectly, leaning back in his seat, his legs comfortably apart, his hands resting easily on the arms of his chair. For an outsider, they were looking like two old friends talking business - if it were not for the armed men keeping watch over the situation. Behind his father, Bjorn stood, his hands shoved into his armpits, making him look even bulkier than he already was. Behind Aethelwulf stood his oldest son but unlike Bjorn, Aethelred seemed a little green and unsure what to do with his hands. He pitied the boy. He was barely in his twenties, his whole life ahead of him, and yet, his father was playing with it with little to no regard for his safety. If Ragnar would have his way, Aethelred would not survive this war. What a waste.

“In that case, I assume that the level of comfort my dear son experiences hinges on the stability of our friendship, right?”

“Quite.”

“Fine,” Ragnar replied with a solemn nod. “And in order to keep our friendship stable, I further assume you would like a token of my appreciation and respect, right?”

“Quite.”

“Good.” He nodded again. Thankfully, he had made the wise decision to only take Bjorn and not his other three boys. Ubbe would have already lost his shit and the other two would not have fared much better. Hell, if any of his boys would be able to take such a conversation well it would be Ivar. His youngest son was a hothead with a bad temper but he was intelligent and he would know that keeping his cool was essential. He leaned forward in his chair again a little as he directed his next words at Aethelwulf. “Tell me then, my dear friend, what would you like as a token of my friendship so that my dear son might return safely to my house?”

※※※※※※※

**November 2013**

Noise. Always noise. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to make his office soundproof. That was the curse of being the father of six children, of course. The curse of being a father of four rowdy boys. 

Ubbe was now at an age where his focus was on girls for the most part. He was almost fifteen and had the looks to be a proper heartthrob. Not a day went by without a girl calling their house or without Ubbe spending hours on the phone or outside with some random girl from school. Sometimes Ragnar thought he should have followed his first instinct and sent this boy to an all-boys-school. He could only hope that Ubbe would be smart enough not to get anyone pregnant any time soon. 

Hvitserk, thankfully, did not think much about girls yet, though Ragnar had little hope that it would stay this way for long. Hvitserk usually did whatever Ubbe would be doing and so it would be only a matter of time now until he too would bring home girls. Thankfully, Hvitserk was still in that awkward teenage phase where he still waited to grow into his face and body. Food was more important for him anyway. However, Ragnar could be thankful that he had surprisingly little troubles with his two older boys. 

It was his younger ones that troubled him. With every day that passed, Sigurd seemed more and more resentful of his little brother. Sigurd and Ivar could hardly stay in the same room for longer than five minutes without starting a fight. On some days it would get entirely too much even for the brave Ragnar Lothbrok and then he wanted nothing more than to separate those boys forever by a barbed-wire fence or something. 

He was on a call with Rollo when it happened. Right as his big brother was telling him about the latest developments in France with their new business partner, a screech tore through the house and almost made Ragnar drop the phone. The screech was shrill and loud and undoubtedly coming from Sigurd’s mouth. Ragnar looked forward to the day when this boy’s voice would finally break and their house might be forever freed from the screeching of two harpies whenever Ivar and Sigurd would go at it with each other. 

“These two,” Ragnar groaned into the phone and his brother had the audacity to chuckle at the comment. “they are going to drive me insane at some point, Brother. Yet, you laugh about my plight!” It was then that the door was thrown open and a very pale, very frightened-looking Sigurd barged into the office.

“I KILLED IVAR!” He was too dumbfounded to react at all at first. “IVAR IS DEAD!” Tears were streaming down Sigurd’s face as he blurted out his murder confession but Ragnar had enough composure to clear his throat as his brother too had gotten silent on the other side of the line - undoubtedly, Rollo had heard the news as well.

“I’ll call you back,” Ragnar said and hung up with all the calm of a man that had seen everything and could not be surprised anymore. Inside of him, however, there was a storm raging. He jumped up and rushed out of the room at once. Sigurd was eager to lead the way to the crime scene. He was surprised that the little guy had confessed his crime instead of hiding the body and erasing all the evidence. Apparently, there was still much to learn for Sigurd if he wanted to make it in their world of crime. He tried to stay calm because Sigurd was probably being overly dramatic again. The boy was only eleven years old, after all. Yet, he could not help that his heart was racing in his chest. Whenever Ivar was hurt, his pulse sky-rocketed every time without fail. 

Sigurd was quite fast for such a little guy and Ragnar had a hard time catching up with him as Sigurd led him towards the living room. The TV was still playing Sigurd’s favorite cartoon, the remote discarded on the floor as if thrown during a scuffle. And there he was, Ivar, lying on the ground motionless right next to the wooden coffee table. The first thing that Ragnar noticed was the blood on the edge of the table. Sigurd was already rushing over to Ivar and he watched the little boy grab his brother’s shirt and gently push at him as if to wake him. It was heartbreaking in a way but right now Ragnar only felt panic at the sight of his little boy motionless on the ground. As he stepped closer, he saw blood on the ground underneath his head.

Immediately, he sank to his knees next to Ivar and felt for his pulse. He could barely focus on what he was trying to do. His fingers were trembling, his heart racing and beating so loudly in his ears that he could not hear anything else, not even Sigurd’s sobbing. At first, he was convinced that there was no pulse but then, finally, he felt it bumping against his fingers, reaching out for him, confirming that his little boy was not dead yet.

Then there was a little moan slipping out of Ivar’s mouth and his eyes slipped open. Carefully, Ragnar helped Ivar to sit up. Sigurd’s eyes were swimming with tears and he could see that Sigurd wanted nothing more than to hug his baby brother despite their animosities. It was more important to assess the damage first, though. Now that Ivar was sitting against him, still half-unconscious and confused, Ragnar had a good look at the back of his head and, sure enough, there was a hole that needed stitching. Fantastic.

Not even twenty minutes later he was sitting on the same yellow plastic chairs he always occupied when he came here, thinking once more about funding new chairs for the hospital since he was such a frequent guest. It would look wonderful in the press as well. Already he was regarded as a philanthropist in the media. Sigurd was sitting beside him, holding onto his arm for dear life while Ivar was in the exam room getting checked out for other injuries and getting his stitches. By now, with nine years of age and all those trips to the hospital, Ivar did not need much hand-holding anymore. 

“What even happened, Sigurd?” He sighed and Sigurd buried his face into his biceps to evade answering the question. “Sigurd, tell me, come on.”

“We had a fight.”

“Go figure.”

“I was watching TV and Ivar came in and wanted to watch something else and then we fought over the remote and then I pushed him and he fell against the table and didn't move.” All of this came out without Sigurd stopping to take a breath. With a sigh, Ragnar put his arm around Sigurd and pulled him close. He could not even be mad at Sigurd. Ivar was a provocateur because he knew that he could get away with it - because he had always gotten away with it. Ivar would provoke Sigurd into a fight and then start crying and screaming and, without fail, either Ubbe or Ragnar would come to the rescue to save the poor baby and scold Sigurd. 

“This has got to stop,” Ragnar sighed. “You guys can't keep fighting like this all the time.”

“But Dad-”

“I know, Sigurd … I know that he provokes you. But he is the only little brother you have. Just ignore him when he starts being a dick.” He knew that this was not good advice for his young son, he knew that he was being a bad father and yet, he did not know what else to do. 

“He should leave me alone then.”

“He just wants to spend time with you and he doesn't know how to do it without provoking you into fights,” Ragnar said and rubbed his son’s back. Once more he was just glad that he had never had this kind of trouble with Ubbe and Hvitserk. Those two had been physically pulled apart at times. Two peas in a pot, attached at the hips. Ragnar, however, thought back to his own childhood and how he had pestered Rollo just to be able to spend time with his ‘cool big brother’. “He loves you dearly, Sigurd. You are his big brother, he looks up to you, he admires you. Just try spending more time with him. I’m sure his attitude will change then.”

Sigurd looked at him with raised brows. Yeah … They both knew that this was bullshit.

※※※※※※※

“It's too much,” Ubbe groaned as they sat together in the living room of the mansion that felt much more like a war room lately. “But I guess that was expected.”

“Yes,” Ragnar laughed. “Yes, it was. Aethelwulf knows that he has leverage on us and he will use it.”

“So, what do we do now?” Hvitserk chimed in. He could see how worried the young man truly was just by the crease on his forehead. Hvitserk, who was rarely serious, seemed aged by a few years now after the events that had ripped their youngest from them. “Are you going to give him what he wants? It would ruin us.”

“Of course, not.”

“Dad!” Sigurd called out in horror. “If you don't give him what he wants he will kill Ivar!”

“No, he won’t,” Bjorn replied evenly. “He can still use him as leverage. He won't kill him, Sigurd. He will just torture him, maybe send us a finger or a toe, an eye or his tongue as proof that he is serious.”

Sigurd blanched visibly at the image. 

“Exactly,” Ragnar nodded. “Which is why we will extend an olive branch. We will give him back our territories in London and offer him one of your grandfather’s factories in Sweden. Also, we will offer him a deal in Normandy with your uncle. I already asked Rollo. This way, Aethelwulf will have a direct shipping route to the European mainland, something that he desires greatly especially now during the current political climate in the UK - this whole Brexit debacle influences his work as much as it does ours. He will understand that I can not allow him to take over part of my business in Norway.”

“But that will not be enough!” Sigurd quickly bristled. It showed just how young the boy truly was. Sigurd was eighteen and thought that this made him a proper adult, a real man, but Ragnar knew better than that. Sigurd, just like Ivar, was still very much a child. And, just like Ivar, he needed guidance and for his father to take care of things and tell him that everything was just fine.

“No,” He replied calmly. “No, it will not be enough. But it will be enough that he will refrain from torturing Ivar for the time being. It will give us more time to find out where he is being kept.”

“He could be anywhere!” This time it was on Ubbe to chime in again. He had not slept in a few days now and it showed in the dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. This had to be expected, of course. Ubbe was terrified for his younger brother’s safety - holding onto his last shreds of sanity for dear life.

“No, he’s in Norway,” Sigurd interrupted. “I already started investigating and my team is working on finding out whatever they can. Aethelwulf’s private jet landed two days ago near Oslo. It's unlikely that he brought Ivar to England or anywhere else outside of the country. He is on enemy territory and every move he would make with Ivar could raise suspicion with the wrong people. We have our eyes and ears everywhere. Every suspicious vehicle would have been reported right away. And, if he actually plans on upholding his end of the deal he will want to have Ivar close by so that he could give him back quickly and not risk that the deal breaks apart after all.”

“I think so too,” Ragnar sighed. “I would have taken his son somewhere else and done it quickly but Aethelwulf is still green. He has only watched his father play the game for a long time but never played it himself. He does not have his father’s intelligence or wisdom. He is the type of person who thinks that he knows more than the more experienced people in the room. In this aspect, he is like Ivar but Ivar ist still a puppy compared to Aethelwulf. This guy should know better. But I hear that he dismisses his wife’s wise counsel and thus he is bound to fail. So, I will play nice with him for as long as it takes and the moment we have Ivar back, he will realize that he poked the wrong bear.”

※※※※※※※

The sound of heavy steps roused him from his drowsy sleep. He was hungry and cold but before he could take stock of his body and his condition, light flooded the room, blinding him and making his head hurt even more. 

“Rise and shine, darling boy!” He knew that voice. He had certainly heard it before but he couldn't be sure. Everything was blurry inside his head. He needed a moment before the world around him made sense again and his eyes stopped burning from the sudden flash of light. Before he was able to, there were hands on him, though - in his hair, pulling him away from the ground until he was kneeling on the hard floor. His head was pulled backward, forcing him to look up, overstretching his neck in the process and making him gasp for air like a fish on land. A face appeared above him as if it was hovering without a body and it took him a moment to recognize it. 

“I talked to your father today,” Aethelwulf confronted him with a smile. “A very smart man, your father. Very worried about you too. Then again, of course, I would be worried as well if my youngest son would be in the hands of my enemy.”

Ivar spat in the man’s face before Aethelwulf could utter another word. The answer for that came swiftly in the form of a fist being slammed into his face. He felt as if his head was exploding or ripped off of his shoulders by the impact. He did not scream, though, only grunted in pain as he bared his teeth at Aethelwulf and tasted the blood on his tongue that oozed out of his split lips. “You will burn for this,” Ivar hissed. “You think that you have outsmarted my father but you have not. He couldn't care less about me - you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

※※※※※※※

Ragnar was standing by the window in his winter garden, overlooking Kattegat, a heavy crystal glass in his hands but the amber liquid inside all but forgotten. Four days. His son was gone for four days now and Ragnar knew that Ivar’s time was running out with each day that would pass. He was in great danger no matter how sure Ragnar felt that he had the situation under control. He knew that he could never be sure to have complete control in a situation like this. He had no way of knowing what his son was going through right at this exact moment as he was staring out over the city. He could be in pain right now, he could be scared. After all, no matter how much of a loudmouth he was, in the end, Ivar was still only sixteen years old, a boy who had never really left this house before and barely met anyone outside of their family. Of course, Ivar would be scared. And, with every day that passed in which Ivar would not get his medication, the situation looked more and more dire. 

He could just give Aethelwulf what he wanted and be done with it but he had promised Sigurd more time to figure it out. For once his fourth son truly seemed adamant to help his little brother in any way that he possibly could and Ragnar did not want to take that from him even as it meant playing Russian roulette with Ivar’s life. 

He was torn as he stood there and took a sip of his whiskey. For the last sixteen years, he had wanted nothing more than to protect his son whatever it cost, even if it would make Ivar hate him. Ragnar would have gladly taken on Ivar’s hate because at least then he would be alive to do so. Now, however, he was facing the very real possibility of his son dying in some cell, locked away like he had been locked away all his life, and he would not even get the chance to explain himself to him, to say sorry to him, to tell him how much, how deeply he loved him. How proud he was of him. How much he adored him. 

The sound of footsteps alerted him of another presence in the room even before he noticed the reflection of his son Bjorn on the glass. His son waited at the door for his father to acknowledge his presence and Ragnar granted him this favor as he turned away from the panorama of Kattegat. Bjorn looked older in the flickering light on the flames inside the fireplace. He too was a father, after all. He, out of all his children, knew best what he was going through right now. 

“I remember the night when Ivar was born,” Bjorn mumbled as he leaned against the doorframe. “You were freaking out, pacing the corridor of the hospital like all of that was new to you. Back then I didn't get it, now that I have my own kids, I understand you better than I did that night.”

“Any news?”

“No,” Bjorn sighed. “Sigurd is working on it. If I wouldn't know him I would say he was running on crack right now but I guess it's just the ridiculous amount of red bull he is chugging to keep going. The boy must be exhausted. When this is over he will sleep for weeks. He’s really doing his best.”

“I know.”

“Also, Ubbe said Uncle Rollo called. Everything is ready to get the deal done. All he needs now is your okay to go through with it.”

“He has it.” Ragnar felt nothing as he said those words. He had always been passionate about his empire, adamant to build something for his sons and daughter to inherit but right now, none of that truly seemed important. He was not his father, after all. His father would not have batted an eye and went hard against Aethelwulf. If his father would still be alive and the head of this family, he would reprimand Ragnar for being so weak. After all, what was the life of one son when he had four others? Moreover the life of a son who was ill and sat in a wheelchair. His father would have gladly sacrificed Ivar for the good of the empire. Ragnar, however, was weak and Aethelwulf was preying on this weakness.

“Fine,” Bjorn said. “Some of our men are still confused about why we are not going in guns blazing.”

“As long as we don't know where Ivar is being kept it might be his death if we are hostile in any way,” He replied patiently even though a part of him wanted to snark at his oldest son. Bjorn should not even be asking such a stupid question, after all, and he made sure that, despite his calmness, his tone conveyed this emotion. If it were Hali or Asa’s lives on the line, he would not even think of asking such a thing. He would have shot down the men that had asked him about his father’s strategy. “If it were Ecbert we were dealing with, I would not be as worried but Aethelwulf is an idiot. He would be smarter about this if he had taken you or Ubbe - but he took my youngest son, the same son he knows was kept inside the house at all times. In his eyes, Ivar might either be not very important to me or extremely important. Right now he is trying to figure out which one it is.”

“Don't worry, Dad,” Bjorn said but he didn't sound all that convinced. “We will get him back. Ivar is strong, you know that. He will get home to us fine and probably just laugh about this shit. I mean … he’s tough. The doctors didn't even think he would survive his first year, right? And look where we are now. He is a menace and Aethelwulf probably already regrets having taken him. You’ll see, soon Aethelwulf will _beg_ you to take him back.”

“You are right,” Ragnar said and took another sip of his whiskey. “Of course, you are right.” Then he emptied his glass and cleared his throat. This was not the time to wallow in this pain that was closing around his heart like an iron fist. He needed to put aside his emotions. “Have you heard from our friend in London?”

“No,” Bjorn replied quietly. “He is surprisingly quiet right now. I last heard of him a week ago. Everything seemed to go according to plan as far as he was concerned.”

“This is unusual … he is very reliable usually.”

“Maybe he was found out.”

“Aethelwulf would have rubbed that in my face then. No, something else is going on for him to go radio silence on us.” For a second he stared into the flames of the fireplace and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “We should not bother with that. He will contact us as soon as it's safe to do so for him. He has proven his loyalty before and he will do it again.”

“I will never get why you trust this guy that much.”

“You know why,” Ragnar laughed even though it lacked all humor.

“Athelstan,” Bjorn said, rolling his eyes with a fond smile.

“Athelstan.”

※※※※※※※

“I always wanted to know,” Aethelwulf said as he sat down on a chair that one of his henchmen had dragged into Ivar’s cell. His eyes were that of a wolf as he took in Ivar’s appearance. “Why Ragnar kept his youngest son hidden. I think I was not the only one who wanted to know, right? Your birth was a huge deal back in the day, I remember it. My wife was pregnant with my second child at that time. My son Alfred is almost a year younger than you are. It was all over the news and in our metier, people were talking too. We were all certain that you had to be horribly disfigured or disabled for your father to hide you in this big house. Color me surprised when my men brought you here. I was sure they had the wrong guy at first but the similarities between you and your father are indisputable. So, tell me, boy, what's wrong with you?”

Ivar pinched his lips into a tight line and clenched his jaw.

“You can't walk, one of the guys who took you said. I can't believe that Ragnar would hide his son just because he’s sitting in a wheelchair. Maybe you are mentally unstable?” His men chuckled. “Or you are just dense.” As he still did not say anything, Aethelwulf seemed to get annoyed by his lack of contribution. “Maybe I should tell my men to undress you so that we can have a proper examination.”

“Sir” Ivar was sure that he had heard the deep voice before as it sounded now from the doorway where Aethelwuld’s men stood guard. A tall, dark-haired man brushed past Aethelwulf’s other henchmen and they moved away to make room for this stranger as if he was Moses parting the red sea. Briefly, Ivar thought that it looked like the other men were afraid of the newcomer. Only for a second, the man’s pale blue eyes met Ivar’s across the room before he refocused his attention on his boss again. “Mr. Lothbrok has asked for another meeting.”

Aethelwulf grinned wolfishly, clapped his hands on his thighs, and got up. “You are in luck, boy. It seems your father actually wants you back after all. Heahmund,” Aethelwulf turned his attention towards the newcomer. “I’m going to leave you in charge of our dear guest. You know what to do. Make sure that our guest has everything he needs.”

“Of course, Sir.”

He watched how Aethelwulf left the room and most of his men followed him like obedient dogs. So far, Ivar thought, he had been lucky. He was injured, of course, but that was still from the fight at the house. The bullet wound in his shoulder felt hot and no one had taken care of that for him so far. He was hungry and cold and miserable. His guards made sure that he could not get proper rest, keeping him awake so that his body could not properly recover. At least, Ivar thought, he had not gotten tortured so far. He still had all his limbs attached and he had gotten punched only a handful of times. In his book, that was a win. All that, he knew, could change quickly and the man he was left alone with, Heahmund, did not look very friendly either.

He was dressed in a sharp, custom-tailored black suit, an equally black button-down shirt stretching over his chest in a way that made it very clear how well-toned his chest probably was beneath the fabric, and expensive-looking leather shoes. Heahmund just stood there, staring down at him with cold, crystal blue eyes without blinking as he listened to his boss retreat. His beard was well-trimmed and only accentuated his sharp features, making his cheekbones look higher and his jaw-line even more well-defined. By all means, he was a good looking man and in that aspect much different from all the other henchmen he had seen so far. As he finally stepped closer, Ivar could tell that there was a certain hint of danger lurking behind those eyes. 

Maybe his situation had become much worse just now after all.

**-End of Chapter 7-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think <3 <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

His blood was boiling as he stared at the photographs on the glass table in front of him. It took all his willpower to not take out his gun and shoot Aethelwulf in the head right here and now in front of his henchmen and his son. Years of training and conditioning made it possible that he did not even bat a lash and once again he was glad that he had only brought Bjorn along to this meeting. 

Bjorn was sitting beside him, on his right-hand side, like Aethelred was sitting beside his father. His oldest son’s face was as calm as his own as they sat there and were confronted with photos of Ivar in some dingy, grey room, covered in his own blood. There was not much to go on in terms of figuring out how badly Ivar was injured except for the obvious wounds on his face. His lips were split open and he was certain that the wound would leave a scar, his nose looked broken, a cut ran through his left eyebrow and there seemed to be blood in his hair. They had probably hit him over the head with the butt of a rifle as they had captured the boy. The grey shirt that Ivar was wearing was ripped and dark with blood from a wound on his shoulder. He had been shot. That much Ragnar could tell right away. 

As he and Bjorn were looking down on the photographs, Aethelwulf was smiling his wolfish smile at them. “As you can see,” The Brit then said, his tone deliberately light-hearted and friendly. “Your son is treated like a prince, just as promised, my friend. I only brought you these photos to see that I keep my word.”

“Yes,” He replied stiffly. “I can see that.”

“We should talk business then,” Aethelwulf smiled as he took a sip from his drink. He was taking pleasure from confronting Ragnar with those images. As a man who had two sons himself, he knew what it did to Ragnar, despite his poker face. “I appreciate your offer, my friend, but you will agree that it is not nearly enough.”

Ragnar forced a smile as he too took a sip from his own glass and let the whiskey burn his throat. The sensation was grounding in an odd way. “And you will probably agree that it's almost impossible to give you what you want in such a short amount of time. My offer is only the appetizer, so to say. It's meant to show you that I am willing to give you what you want.”

“And in turn you want me to give you your son back.”

“You would be stupid to do that,” Ragnar replied in a low chuckle. “No, in return, I just want to be certain that there will be no further harm done to my son. In return, I would really like to be able to talk to my son and make sure that he is actually still alive. These photos could have been taken days ago, after all.”

“It hurts me that you have so little trust in me, my friend.”

“And it hurts me that you think I won’t keep my word, my friend.”

They were clearly at a stalemate here and Aethelwulf knew that. Ragnar could tell that he still had not figured out if Ivar was important to him or not. He could also tell that Aethelwulf really needed to figure that out because it would decide what Ragnar’s next move would look like. 

“Your son,” Aethelwulf said again and pointed with a small smile on the photo right in front of Ragnar where Ivar was snarling directly at the camera, looking more like a rabid dog than a teenage boy. “is a very interesting character. You kept him away from the media completely - had him hidden in this house. That makes me curious. What is so special about him that you hid him like that? Even my father was wondering about that. There have been all kinds of rumors about the boy. I for one was certain that your son had to be severely disabled either mentally or physically - if not both. But when I saw him I was surprised to see a rather normal looking young man. You are not really going to tell me that the great Ragnar Lothbrok hid his son only because he cannot use his legs, right?”

“Of course not,” Ragnar replied with a friendly smile. “Your younger son, Alfred - you keep him away from the media as well, don't you? Why?”

“Well,” Aethelwulf chuckled. “He is only fifteen!”

“What an odd coincidence, right? He was born in the summer, right?” There was a split second, barely long enough to be noticed by anyone but Ragnar, where Aethelwulf’s mask threatened to drop. This moment was enough to confirm what Ragnar had been thinking about that man. He was truly an idiot if he had thought that Ragnar had not dug into his personal life. “Alfred is a few months younger than Ivar then. My boy just turned sixteen three months ago. So, I take it that you want to protect Alfred - as every good father would do. You see, _I_ only wanted to protect Ivar too. He is sick - which is why I would greatly appreciate it if I could make sure that he is well. He has a heart condition and asthma and, yes, as you so cleverly deduced, he can not use his legs. I think, if your Alfred would deal with the same medical issues as my Ivar does, you would hide him away too just to keep him safe.”

He had given Aethelwulf further ammunition and he was aware of that. He did not need to see Bjorn’s surprised look as he revealed all these details about Ivar. However, in giving Aethelwulf this information about Ivar’s health, he also furthered Aethelwulf’s belief that Ragnar would go through with his end of the bargain to keep his fragile son safe. He had given Aethelwulf the answer that the other man had been looking for and that might further endanger Ivar but it might just give Ragnar a few more days of rest before Aethelwulf would actually start harming the boy because he was getting impatient with Ragnar. A few more days. That was all he needed. And yet, he could not help but feel like he was pressing a gun against Ivar’s temple as Aethelwulf’s smile grew wider.

※※※※※※※

**August 2011**

Ragnar Lothbrok had never made the conscious decision to keep his youngest child locked up at home. For the longest time, it had been out of the question that Ivar would leave to go to kindergarten or play on a playground with other children. Sometimes it seemed that the first six years of his life, his baby boy had spent more time at the hospital than at home. So, when on one sunny august morning Ragnar Lothbrok was confronted with Ivar sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, dressed and ready to go with a little backpack that used to belong to Sigurd and had a dog on it, he was understandably confused at the sight.

“What are you doing, Ivar?” He addressed his youngest child. Ivar, however, looked up at him with all the patience only a six-year-old could muster. His hair was still tousled from sleep as he had not made an effort of actually brushing it. Briefly, Ragnar thought that he needed to call his hairdresser over again. Ivar’s hair was growing like weeds and it was time for a proper haircut again.

“Summer break is over,” his son answered matter-of-factly. 

“Yes?”

“I’m starting school today!”

For a couple of seconds, Ragnar was at a loss for words. It wasn’t even the first day of school yet but that was, of course, besides the point. Still, his little boy seemed determined to go with his brothers even as they were still fast asleep. “Ivar … We talked about it, didn't we?”

“You said I could go to school when I was better!” The little guy exclaimed, his eyebrows already drawn together in silent anger simmering just beneath the surface. “I am better!”

“You have been home for a _week_ , Ivar,” Ragnar sighed. And hadn't that been a proper health-scare? He would never get it out of his head how his boy had gasped for breath for minutes like a fish on land and how even his medication had not helped him properly. His other boys had been in hysterics at the sight of their baby brother writhing in pain, panicking because he couldn't get any air in. That night, all four of them had slept in his bed.

“Dad-”

“No, Ivar.” Telling Ivar no was never an easy feat - which was why so few people ever did so. Ragnar was one of the handful of people brave enough to actually tell his son no - that was when he was around to do so. To his shame, he had to admit that he barely spent any time at home these days. The children were loud and demanding and by now he had grown tired of the constant fighting between his two youngest children. 

“Why not?”

“First of all,” He sighed. “It's not even the first day of school yet. That would be Wednesday. Second of all, I have not enrolled you in any school, Ivar.”

“I want to go to the school Sigurd goes to!”

“I know, Chipmunk, and I already told you that you can’t go to that school. You would need a school catered to your needs and the next school that does that and is to our standards, is in Hedeby.”

“I want to go to school, Daddy!”

“I told you that I have found tutors for you, Ivar. You will be homeschooled, we have talked about that.”

“But I want to go to school with Sigurd!” That finally alerted the attention of Ivar’s three older brothers as they sleepily came down the stairs, not prepared in the slightest for an early morning temper tantrum. “I want to go to a normal school! With normal kids! I don't want to stay at home!”

“I said no, Ivar!” He then growled and it spoke to Ivar’s character that the little guy did not flinch from the sound. He remained steadfast where he was and stood his ground. “You will not go to school with your brothers. You will be homeschooled - it is decided and no matter how you scream and yell, I will not change my mind about it. It is too dangerous and you will never go to a normal school like your brothers because you are not like your brothers! And now enough of this nonsense, I need to go to work!”

It did not escape him that Ivar’s eyes were swimming in unshed tears as he yelled at the little guy. Other parents would be happy if their kids would actually want to go to school. Heaven knew that it had been a chore sometimes to get Ubbe and Hvitserk motivated. And still, the thought of Ivar being out of the house and in the care of strangers was paralyzing. Here, inside these walls, his baby boy was safe. No harm would come to him here in this house.

※※※※※※※ 

He was defenseless - helpless - against his captors. That was the worst about the situation Ivar Lothbrok found himself in. He could deal with the pain and the hunger and the cold. Sure, he had grown up quite spoiled but that did not mean he was weak or soft in any way. If he would not be tied up he would be able to at least fight, he was sure of that. But, as things were, he was helpless. It was that thought that scared him more than anything else about all of this. 

He had no way of telling how much time had passed since he got here - wherever _here_ was. Aethelwulf’s henchmen seemed to come at random intervals so that he could not even try to figure out a pattern that might indicate the passing of time. Maybe Aethelwulf was smarter than his father was given him credit for. Maybe he had his henchmen come to him at random on purpose. As he sat in the corner of his cell, unable to find sleep despite being exhausted and deathly tired, he found himself wondering what his family was doing right now. Were they worried about him? Were his brothers maybe glad that he was gone? If they would do what Aethelwulf asked them to do it would only be for their image and not because they loved them.

Maybe Ubbe loved him enough to honestly and whole-heartedly wanting to save him. Ubbe was soft, though. His father was not soft. His father, who was probably happy to be rid of him. No way in hell his father would give Aethelwulf what he demanded in exchange for the son with the least potential to get very far in life, right? He might die in just a year or a month. He knew that his would not be a very long life. His heart would give out sooner or later. He was a dead man … well, crawling. His father would be stupid to risk everything that he had built for him. He would throw him to the wolves without a second thought and with the exception of Ubbe, no one would grief him either. Sigurd would dance on his grave, Bjorn, Hvitserk, and Gyda would be relieved. Maybe Ubbe would be relieved too. He was a burden to them all. He knew that. And yet, for sixteen years, Ivar had lied to himself and imagined being a part of this family. 

As the door to his room swung open, he expected to see Heahmund, that scary looking guy with those intense eyes. So far, he had not said much to Ivar and he had not come to see him many times either to make sure that Ivar was still alive. Instead, three of Aethelwulf’s henchmen walked inside. One of them carried a baseball bat over his shoulder. _Ah_ , he thought, _they come to play_. He tried biting their hands as they were grabbing him and pulling him out of his corner and only got a punch in the jaw in retaliation.

Within seconds, he found himself on the ground in the middle of the room and the bat came down on him for the first time with no restraint or mercy. Ivar barely had any time to scream in pain as the bat hit him in the side before the man swung his bat down on him again, this time onto his already mangled right leg. Pain exploded inside of him like a nuclear bomb and filled his entire being. White, hot, searing pain, as his thigh bone broke like a twig. The scream that escaped him was that of an animal trapped in agony. A high-pitched noise filled his ears, louder than the roaring laughter of the men.

“He can sing!” The man with the bat roared. “Let’s hear that again, shall we?” 

Black spots danced at the field of his vision and yet, Ivar forced himself to watch how the man threw the bat over his shoulder to build up momentum for the next hit. His bones would break like twigs under the next hit.

“What the bloody hell is going on in here?” A hand closed itself around the bat of the man, holding it in place. Even though his eyesight was blurry, he could recognize Heahmund’s face. A dark scowl made Ivar’s attacker tremble in his boots and while the guy with the bat was not stuck, the two other men quickly retreated to the side of the room. 

As the attacker did not answer right away, Heahmund ripped the bat out of his hand, quickly maneuvered it into his own hand and hit the man in the back of his knees to bring him to the ground. Another hit right between his shoulder blades made him gag and almost throw up but Ivar could barely even feel glee about it. The pain he was in was just overwhelming as he lay there, barely clinging to consciousness.

“I said,” Heahmund did not even raise his voice. It stayed low and even as he spoke. “What the hell is going on in here? Who the fuck allowed one of you dimwits to assault our captive? Do you have so little respect for the boss’ orders? He said not to harm him, didn't he? And yet here you are, breaking bones!”

“We just-” One of them said but stopped right away as Hehamund glared at him. 

“Yes?”

The man swallowed visibly at Heahmund’s scrutiny. “We just … wanted to have some fun. He’s our enemy after all, isn’t he? And it's not like Aethelwulf really plans on giving him back to his father anyway, right? We were bored watching him.”

“It does not fucking matter if the boss wants to give him back or not. As long as the boss says that the boy is not to be harmed, the boy won’t be harmed. As soon as he says that he is fair game, be my guest, but until then you will keep your fucking hands off of him, are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir!” Both of the men replied immediately. Their friend had apparently passed out. What a colossal whump.

“Not get this asshole out of my eyes.” He threw the bat at one of them who caught it clumsily. Quickly, they grabbed their friend and dragged him out of the room, leaving Ivar alone with Heahmund. 

Nothing happened for the longest time, even after the door had fallen shut behind the retreating trio. At least ten seconds went by before Heahmund moved and when he did he was like a panther going in for the kill on its prey. Ivar immediately flinched back and tried to maneuver his body further away from Heahmund. Unbothered, the Englishman crouched down in front of him and put a hand on Ivar’s shoulder. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Heahmund promised and if he would be in a better condition, Ivar would have laughed about that. “Let me have a look at your leg. We can’t risk an infection.”

As Heahmund touched his leg, Ivar started kicking as much as he actually could with his left leg, pain shooting through him at the motion and then darkness claiming him all at once.

※※※※※※※

“Time is running out, Dad,” Bjorn said quietly, and Ragnar bit back a snort. Hell, as if he needed to be reminded of that. He could think of nothing else than Ivar and the very fact that time was, indeed, running out. 

“I know that.”

“Sigurd has not yet found out where Ivar is being held.”

“No. But he found out other things. I already put him to work.”

“You are playing Russian roulette with Ivar’s life, Dad! If Aethelwulf finds out about what you have been up to, he will kill Ivar!”

“He will kill him either way, Bjorn!” His son looked at him as if he had slapped him. “Do you really think Aethelwulf will give Ivar back unharmed? Of course, not! He will either kill him or keep him captive to hold this over my head so that I might not become a threat. We have to act if we want even a sliver of a chance to save Ivar! Do you really believe that I don't know how dangerous this is for Ivar? Do you really think I would not lie awake at night being scared to death for the life of my _son_ , Bjorn?”

“Of course, not,” Bjorn whispered. “Of course not, Dad … It's just … Ubbe is going up the walls and so is Hvitserk. Sigurd has not slept in almost two weeks now. He is stressing himself out so much to find a way to find Ivar and you have someone on the inside and are not telling them about that.”

“Because I have not heard of him yet,” Ragnar said. “I told you before, Bjorn, I have no idea if he is involved in the situation and can actually help. If he is involved, I trust that he will be able to keep Ivar safe and contact me as he sees fit. Telling your brothers about him won't change anything and just because I have someone on the inside doesn't mean that Ivar is safe either. There is nothing we can do about Ivar and the danger he is in. What we can do, however, is tear Aethelwulf and his empire apart piece by piece and for that I need Sigurd motivated.”

“So, you rather have him panicked for the life of his own brother than tell him the truth.”

“Yes.”

Bjorn brushed a hand through his hair before he shook his head. “I can't stop you,” Bjorn said quietly. “But I don't condone how you handle this situation and I guess my little brothers will not be happy when they hear the truth.”

“I don't expect them to be happy,” Ragnar said with a sigh. “The decision a leader has to make only rarely makes the people closest to him happy, Bjorn. The goal is to get Ivar back home safely and not lose our entire enterprise to those tea-drinking, crumpet-eating assholes in the process. Tell Sigurd to step it up a notch when you get home. I am meeting with Aethelwulf in two days - everything needs to be ready until then otherwise his brother has no chance to survive this. He can not be without his medication for much longer than this.”

If he was not already dead. 

Bjorn nodded and left his office without any more hesitation, leaving Ragnar to his thoughts as he stared out of the tall window overlooking his city. His family was responsible for the fact that Kattegat was one of the biggest and most important cities in Norway. Generations of his family, his father, his grandfather, his great-great-grandfather had made Kattegat to what it was today. He felt great pride whenever he would look at the city he had helped to build during his lifetime. Kattegat was more important to him than his other endeavors all throughout Norway or Europe. Here it had all started for his family and their base would forever remain here even though cities like Oslo might be the more lucrative option. He could not risk losing any part of his enterprise but losing Kattegat would kill him. Aethelwulf would not win this fight. Yet, as he stood there and took a sip of his whiskey, he wondered what it would cost him to win against Aethelwulf. 

Ragnar had always been a risk-taker. He had never been too concerned with the dangers that came with his work. He had never been too concerned with the possibility that he might endanger one of his kids. His kids were all very capable, after all. They could look after themselves. For the first time in his fifty-three years on this planet, he was nervous, afraid even. 

He wondered what Athelstan would say to him now. He could almost hear his voice even so many years after he had died. Athelstan would look at him with those clear blue eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the entire world. He would listen to his plans, his strategy and then tell him that he thought it was too dangerous, that he was risking too much, that he was not only risking Ivar’s life but that of his other sons as well. But what other option did he have? 

If Sigurd would not succeed they were all doomed. Simple as that. He harbored no illusions about the fact that he would not see Ivar alive again if he would play along with Aethelwulf’s game. If he would submit, he would keep Ivar forever or have him die in his care. Either way, he would never see him again. If he would go through with his own plan then there was at least a chance that Ivar would survive and be reunited with his family. His father would have just attacked Aethelwulf without false pretenses. He would have openly thrown away Ivar’s life. If his father had still been around when Ivar had been born he would have probably told Ragnar to give him up or send him away but not burden himself with a crippled, sick child. 

He turned away from the window again only for his eyes to catch on the photos on his desk. His kids. All of them. Gyda and Bjorn, grinning at him, side by side - the last photo their mother had ever taken of them when they were little. Ubbe and Hvitserk, always attached at the hips. Sigurd, holding his toy guitar into the camera with a toothy smile. Ivar. His baby boy, asleep in his crib.

The plan had to be a success. It just had to be.

※※※※※※※

Something made him stir in his corner. He couldn't tell what it was at first. A feeling in the pit of his stomach, perhaps. Something was not right, that much he could tell. His stomach turned at the thought. Today was the day, he thought idly. Today was the day Aethelwulf would kill him. He was no longer needed. He could feel it in his bones. The hunger pains had gotten so worse by now that he considered eating his own foot or actually pleading with this Heahmund-guy for a piece of bread - anything, really. 

There was still hope clinging to his mind like a disease that maybe Aethelwulf would just have him tortured, just cut off his ear or a finger or something to send back to his father to drive home his point. Surely, Aethelwulf would try that before he would kill him, right? Maybe his father had proven to be difficult or was not cooperative enough. Ivar wouldn't be surprised. After all, he had already told Aethelwulf that his father didn't care if his youngest child was in danger. He was probably happy to be rid of him now. He had been hidden from the public all his life and surely his father would come up with some sob story about his baby dying from a prolonged illness, thus garnering more attention and love from the people who already adored him. 

He would not be saved. No one would come for him. Even his brothers would be happy to be rid of him. He was a pest. He had done everything in his power to make himself a nuisance in his brothers’ lives. But what other choice did he have? If he had not been awful, they would have forgotten about him altogether. Sometimes it was better to be feared and hated than to be loved. At least then people would talk and remember him. His old nannies would forever have scars reminding them of him whether those scars were physical or mental did not matter. And his brothers too would remember the devil that had been living with them. It was better than being forgotten by them, a footnote in their lives to be remembered only when his name was brought up by accident.

The truth was that Ivar had only ever wanted his family's love but he had not known how to ask for it - a commodity that was not easily handed out in their house. Love had to be earned and Ivar had never known how. After all, what did he have to offer his family in exchange? He had always been lesser than his brothers with nothing to give to the family. That was why he had studied and learned whatever he could learn, read whatever he could get his hands on. And still, it was never enough, it seemed. He would never be good enough for his father, never be strong enough, never be clever enough. He had not even managed to escape being captured and kidnapped. His existence was now putting his father’s empire in jeopardy. 

Something hit the wall outside of his room hard and then there was the sound of something falling to the ground heavily. The sounds outside his room were followed by a heavy silence, thick as molasses and just as gooey. 

Instinctively, he made himself smaller in his corner - as much as he could with his destroyed leg. Every time he jostled it just slightly, he would be in a world of agony so he tried to sit still as much as possible. At the sound of keys jingling outside and then being inserted into the keyhole, he felt his heart racing and his chest tightening. He was afraid. There was no shame in admitting that - not to himself, at least. And yet he forced himself to remain calm. He had no medication with him and he could not risk losing control and die out here, miserable and alone and forgotten in this tiny room. The sound of the key being turned and the door being unlocked made him flinch. With rapt attention, he stared at the door as it swung open only to reveal Heahmund stumbling in, a gun in his hand and a splatter of blood on his face.

Now there was not much to be done about the way his heart was racing inside his chest, slamming into his ribcage like a bird trying to escape its prison. Was he really going to be finished off like this? A bullet to his head? Without any bravado? He had no way of defending himself, no way of fighting back, no way of overpowering Heahmund in the sorry state he was in, half-starved, tired, feverish, and with a couple of broken bones. He would be shot and killed just like that, like an animal, like a horse that would be put down after it had broken a leg. And then what? Would they throw him in a ditch somewhere? Bury him in a shallow grave? No, he thought grimly. The least he could do was try to fight. He would not die cowering in the corner like a scared child or a beaten puppy. As long as he was still breathing he would fight. He was the son of the great Ragnar Lothbrok, after all.

Heahmund walked into the room, his face a mask of calmness, unreadable, the gun at his side. He did not view him as a threat and that would be his mistake. Ivar waited for him to step even closer, expecting that the man would want to put the muzzle of his gun right to his forehead to ensure a swift kill. He waited until Heahmund was only two steps away before he all but threw himself at the other man, baring his teeth like a rabid dog. His hands were bound but he could still use the force of his body to slam into Heahmund and throw him off balance. The man stumbled and was catapulted backwards to the ground at the impact. Ivar ignored the nauseating pain shooting through him now that Heahmund was on his level. Before the other man knew what was happening, Ivar was on top of him and rammed his head into Heahmund's, startling him and gaining Ivar another second in which he would have the upper hand. Just as he was about to bring his teeth down into the man’s neck, however, he was clocked over the head with Heahmund’s gun hard.

“Stop this nonsense, kid!” Heahmund hissed and to his displeasure, Ivar noted that he sounded more annoyed than in pain as he shoved Ivar off of him. He was dizzy and disorientated. What was it with people hitting him in the head all the time? 

Before he knew it, he was hoisted up and thrown over Heahmund’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It was humiliating, but the fever made his head spin and he had a hard time keeping himself from vomiting all over the man’s back. Not that he would care but he didn't wish to further his humiliation right now. He did not want to be found somewhere with vomit in his hair showing everyone what a pathetic little worm he was. No matter how he would be found, Sigurd would have a field day with it. A part of him just wanted to plead with Heahmund to just let him go as he so obviously held no value to his father but his pride was stronger - his desire to make him proud was always present no matter how much his father disregarded him. He had always desired his father's praise and attention and now facing death that was still what he wanted the most in this world.

He would have kicked Heahmund if he would be able to but it took him too much willpower and strength not to scream in pain as he was manhandled in such a way. Heahmund didn't care much if he jostled him as he quickly left the room with Ivar on his shoulder as if he weighed nothing at all. However, the moment they walked into the hallway outside of his room, he noticed a figure lying on the ground, blood surrounding their head like a halo. He couldn't say who the person was or if he had seen them before but in his head, everything screamed that his father had come for him after all. That was why Heahmund was here to take him out of his prison. He had been sent to get Ivar out and away from this place so that Ragnar could not get to him. His family was here, trying to get him and that man on the ground had probably been shot by Heahmund just as he had tried to free him. 

“If you make a sound, I will cut your tongue out,” Heahmund promised grimly as he carried Ivar down the hallway. 

In his delirious state, Ivar was not able to make a quip at the man, he did not find the right words. In his delirious state, he did not even notice the distinct absence of gunshots or any sound that might indicate a fight. 

His surroundings flew past him without him even noticing where they were going until fresh air hit his skin. Outside. They were outside. If he wouldn't be a cripple, he would be able to escape now. But he was. He was helpless and defenseless, the exact things his father had always said he was and that he had rebelled against all his life. In the end, his father was proven right. He was helpless. Someone was shooting. It took him a moment to realize that someone was shooting as Heahmund started running. His father. Ivar tried looking back at the person shooting and for a moment, he was convinced that he saw Ragnar taking aim at Heahmund but as he blinked the figure was no longer Ragnar. 

His head was spinning. He was thrown into the backseat of a car, doors slammed shut, an engine roared, and then Heahmund high-tailed it out of wherever they were. Black spots were dancing at the field of his vision, the world was going in and out of focus. He had been so close to getting rescued by his family and now he was being driven to his death and there was nothing he could do about it.

**-End of Chapter 8-**


	9. Chapter 9

They were meeting at the harbor even though it seemed a little cliche to Ragnar. It had been Aethelwulf’s choice to meet here and Ragnar knew exactly why, of course. The harbor was the perfect place to have Ragnar and his family surrounded, executed, and disposed of. The deal was that Ragnar would sign the papers that would sell all his businesses over to Aethelwulf and that he and his family would be allowed to live and even get Ivar back. Ragnar, however, knew that this was not Aethelwulf’s plan. As long as the Lothbroks would be alive, they would be a danger to Aethelwulf’s growing empire and no wise man would allow something like that to happen. Aethelwulf might not be as wise as his late father but he was ruthless and thought he knew better than his old man. 

He had no respect for older and more experienced men and that was only one of the crucial mistakes that Aethelwulf had made so far in his life. The other one was to underestimate Ragnar and his willingness to risk everything for an even higher reward. Ragnar had always been a risk-taker, always been a gambler. Where other people would shrink away in fear, Ragnar would revel in the adrenaline rushing through his body and spurring him on to reach even greater heights.

Ragnar wore his mask of calm neutrality as he stepped forward to meet Aethelwulf inside the warehouse, his sons following after him, one united front. It was more than that, though. Showing up with all his sons was dangerous. He put all their lives on the line and showed Aethelwulf that he was not afraid of him. It was obvious that Aethelwulf had not expected that as they met face to face at last. As per usual, he had only brought his older son with him - and, just like Ragnar - a crapton of armed henchmen, of which most remained outside.

“I am glad we finally meet again to finalize the arrangement,” Aethelwulf greeted him, his arms wide open as if to invite Ragnar into a hug. Ragnar’s own smile was that of a shark, bearing all his teeth at the other man in response. He would not be submissive to Aethelwulf, not cower in front of him just because the man had him surrounded and his youngest child in his possession. He would continue to tower over Aethelwulf and look down on him and so would his sons.

“I apologize for the delays,” Ragnar replied. “Getting things in order and finalizing everything for the transfer was a complicated affair and took longer than I expected.

“I understand, my friend.” Aethelwulf gestured towards a table to the side that Ragnar had set up there for this occasion. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” Ragnar replied. “And then we celebrate and drink to your success.”

They walked over to the table, their sons and henchmen remaining where they were. Ragnar spread out the papers he had brought with him and took his fountain pen out of the breast pocket of his suit. 

“What are you going to do now that you retire from the business?”

“Oh,” Ragnar huffed. “I always wanted to be a farmer.”

※※※※※※※

**July 2017**

“I am worried about Ivar.” Gyda sat down heavily on the chair on the other side of Ragnar’s heavy oak wood desk.

“Why?”

“He is acting strangely.” A chuckle escaped Ragnar at that but his daughter would have none of that as she swiftly corrected herself. The glare she leveled her father with, however, spoke volumes and reminded him so much of Lagertha. “I mean stranger than usual, Dad. Something is not right, everyone can see it.”

“He appeared normal to me last time I spoke to him.” At that, his daughter’s eyebrows shot up and almost vanished in her hairline. 

“Dad, I think if you really thought he was acting his usual self, you need to spend more time with him.” Again, Gyda’s words were sharp while her voice remained soft and calm. It was a talent. He remembered having fights with Lagertha and how she would literally throw plates at his head. Gyda, however, remained calm in her frustrations, with the patience of a saint. If Lagertha could see her right now, tall, beautiful, and, more importantly, smart, she would be proud of what had become of their daughter. From time to time Ragnar found himself utterly amazed that he had done that - that he had raised this incredible woman.

His daughter’s words were still in his ears as he later returned home. He had come home early that day. He didn't want to appear too worried and yet he wanted to have a chat with Ivar himself. Gyda was not someone who was overly worried about her younger brothers. She was a good older sister and always lent an ear to her brother’s worries and plights but she was not a mother hen towards them. Still, he remembered Ivar snuggling up to her whenever they would sit as a family during the holidays, searching for a bit of warmth and comfort in his big sister and Gyda had always happily obliged - Gyda who was, just like Ivar, an observer and who saw more things than both Ragnar and Bjorn usually saw. Thus he could not brush off her concerns so easily. If she was right and something was wrong with his youngest son and he would not even try to find out what it was, he would never be able to forgive himself.

It was a hot day and his other three sons were hanging around at the pool outside. It hurt him, in a way, to see how Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk were having fun in the water and not including their little brother. Then again, Ivar was meant to be studying with his tutor right now. Still, he knew that Ivar would not be out there enjoying himself with his brothers even if he would be free right now. It pained him to know that Ivar was an outcast amongst his own brothers.

After greeting his sons, Ragnar walked back into the house to find Ivar instead. He walked straight down the corridor of the west wing of the house that held his own office and the library - the place where Ivar was tutored, as far away removed from the TV or his computer as possible. Ivar was twelve and though not yet a teenager already rebellious. However, he was, luckily, also a very studious young man, with a sharp mindset on his education. It did not take much to convince Ivar to study and learn something new but it took a lot of convincing to get him to open up to his tutors. Already, he had scared a couple of the best minds Norway had to offer out of this house because they couldn't cope with his antics. 

The time he had put a spider into the bag of one of his female tutors had to be the mildest of his pranks so far. Yet, Ragnar would never forget the screeching of the lady as she had fled the mansion in a blind panic.

Already, as he walked up to the open doors of the library he could hear yet another tutor lose their calm with his son. He could hear the man yell and then the sound of something hitting on wood. His eyebrows rose up at this unexpected sound. Perhaps the teacher had just slammed a book on a table even though the sound reminded Ragnar painfully of his own childhood - of wooden rulers or heavy books being slammed down on tiny hands. The sound was followed by a sharp howl of pain coming from his son, though, and that was, in the end, what made Ragnar barge into the library without wasting another second. The wooden ruler was still in the teacher’s hand as Ivar was clutching his own hands to his chest.

His son’s face was bright red either from anger or unshed tears while his teacher was fuming with rage. 

“What is going on here?” 

At the sound of Ragnar’s sharp voice, both the tutor and Ivar flinched in surprise. As he strode closer, he could see angry red welts on the back of Ivar’s hands, some even oozing a few drops of blood. Suddenly, Ragnar realized how odd it had been that his son had worn long-sleeves that he had pulled over his hands lately even though it was the middle of July. He had chalked it up to the fact that his youngest son was cold most of the time due to his lack of mobility. Ubbe had not appeared too worried either about his baby brother and since Ubbe had not been worried, neither had he. Now, however, he saw the real reason for Ivar’s odd clothing choice just in this second.

“Mr. Lothbrok, Sir - it’s … nothing-”

“To me, it looks like you just hit my son,” Ragnar replied calmly, his voice steady but the dark growl underneath it all betraying how he really felt. Ivar’s tutor blanched impressively. 

“Mr. Lothbrok-”

“I would advise you to pack your stuff and leave now.” He didn't need to say anything else. The man was already scrambling to shove his belongings into his bag and then rush out of the room even as it meant walking past Ragnar. “I expect you in my office tomorrow at 9 AM sharp,” he hissed at the man just as he was walking past Ragnar. The man muttered something that sounded vaguely like he agreed before he all but fled the scene, leaving Ragnar with his son. 

Surprisingly, Ivar seemed flustered and nervous as he was now alone with his father. He looked as if he was expecting a punishment and that realization gave him pause. It was the first time that Ragnar realized that his son actually seemed afraid of him.

He took a deep breath to steady himself before he walked over to where his son was sitting. Without much hesitation, he took Ivar’s injured hands even though his son flinched at the touch, and had a good look at them. “Come,” He said quietly. “We need to clean this up.”

It spoke to how intimidated Ivar was that he wouldn't talk back. A few moments later, they were in the bathroom closest to the library and Ragnar was cleaning his son’s wounds with rubbing alcohol. He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub and Ivar was, as per usual, in his wheelchair. Now, finally, Ragnar realized just why he had been using this most hated item so much lately. His hands had hurt too much to crawl about. He should have noticed it sooner. Ivar never used his wheelchair when he could avoid it.

“How long has he been treating you like this?” Ragnar asked calmly as he focused on his work. 

“A month or so…” Ivar quietly replied, his whole body tense while his father was treating his wounds as if he expected to be hit by him.

“I’ll find a new tutor for you,” Ragnar said. His son’s hands were calloused for such a young boy. He ought to buy him new gloves. Ivar needed his hands, after all. They were most precious to him and more often than not Ivar would not ask for things like new gloves or different knee pads. Most of the time Ubbe or even Hvitserk would approach him and tell him that Ivar had outgrown something again so that Ragnar could buy it for the little guy. The last time he had needed a new wheelchair, it had been Sigurd who had come to him to tell him about his brother’s discomfort. “And this time I’ll make sure shit like this does not happen again. Why didn't you say anything?”

Ivar’s shoulders sacked dramatically as he let out a snort. “You wouldn't have listened.”

“What? Of course, I would have listened!”

“No, Dad … You didn't listen either when I told you that Nanny Barnes was hitting me.”

He briefly remembered how Ivar had told him about that a few years ago. Of course, Ragnar had been concerned at first but then he had brushed it away. Ivar had lied a lot back then to gain his attention and he was famous for doing everything in his power to drive his nannies and tutors away. Now, however, he felt like the worst parent ever. Should he have paid more attention to Ivar back in the day? Should he have believed him and fired the woman right away? 

His intentions had been pure, though. He had wanted to show Ivar that he could not just lie about such things and expect Ragnar to move mountains for his son in response. He didn't want to spoil Ivar rotten. The boy should learn that he had to work for the things he wanted, that he would not get everything on a silver platter just because he was Ivar Lothbrok. Ivar had troubles with discipline and even more troubles with accepting authority figures. It would not help his son if Ragnar would replace everyone Ivar deemed unworthy of his time. And still, right now, as his son said these words, he felt horrible. At least, Ragnar thought, he should have tried to find out if Ivar was speaking the truth. 

“I want to hear everything,” Ragnar then said and looked his son directly in the eyes, hoping that Ivar would open up and trust him enough now to actually speak his mind. Taking in his baby boy’s appearance now, almost thirteen years old, he had still a lot of baby fat to shed but already he could see glimpses of the handsome young man he would soon become. “I am sorry for not listening before but I am listening now.” 

All he had ever wanted was that Ivar was safe in this house and behind those walls he was caged in. The whole point of keeping Ivar locked up in this house was that he wanted him safe. 

“Really?” This simple little word served to break Ragnar’s heart in two halves. Apparently, he had let his son down most spectacularly if he needed to ask. 

“Tell me.”

※※※※※※※

The vibrations of the road beneath the wheels of the jeep were billowing through him like electricity. His head hurt like a bitch as he returned slowly to consciousness, blinking tiredly as the car was maneuvered over serpentine roads. He couldn't move much with his injured leg and his hands tied behind his back. The fever was weighing him down too. At least he could stretch his neck enough to see that they were driving into the mountains that were surrounding Kattegat. Heahmund was quiet in the front and Ivar didn't dare to alert him of his consciousness just yet. The more he would be able to see of their surroundings the more likely it would be that he could at least try to escape. Heahmund might try to hinder him from watching where they were going if he would notice that he was awake. He needed to be smart about it, even though it became harder and harder each second to cling to consciousness.

Soon, they were leaving the road and entered a narrow path that was leading into a thick forest. It was the first time for Ivar that he was so far away from home. He had no idea where he was or where this road was taking him and Heahmund. His heart was racing with anxiety and there was nothing he could do about it. while Heahmund was driving, Ivar kept glancing at the clock on the dashboard so he would be able to map out how long they were driving through the forest and perhaps get a sense of the distance they were traveling. As soon as they were surrounded by trees to each side, Heahmund could not drive as fast anymore. At one point he slowed down to walking pace as the car was carefully maneuvered over the uneven terrain of the path that led through the forest. 

They had been driving for fifteen minutes when the car finally stopped. Quickly, Ivar closed his eyes, listening to how Heahmund unbuckled his seatbelt, turned off the car, took the keys, then opened his door and climbed out of the vehicle. He immediately shut the door and, for a few seconds, Ivar was alone. He strained his ears to listen to his surroundings so he might be able to make out if there were other people around but he couldn't hear much. Then Heahmund returned to the car. The backseat door by Ivar’s head was opened and then the hands of the man slowly and carefully started pulling Ivar out until Heahmund was able to pick him up. 

This time he was not thrown over the man’s shoulder. Surprisingly enough, he was handling him very carefully now as he pulled him into a bridal carry. Ivar forced himself to remain unmoving and unresponsive. The longer Heahmund would think he was unconscious, the better it would be for him. The man did not waste any more time after this. He heard the car door being slammed shut - probably by foot - and then Heahmund started walking with him in his arms. Outside of the car a heavy wind was blowing and rustling through the leaves of the trees around. It sounded like a storm but Ivar had no point of reference to figure out if a forest up in the mountains just sounded like this on a normal day. 

A moment later - four heartbeats to be precise - the air changed as they were probably stepping into a room. A cabin, perhaps? Heahmund kept walking - one, two, three, four, five steps before he stopped and started lowering Ivar. A bed, he quickly realized. He was being put on a bed and without opening his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to figure out his exact surroundings yet. It seemed quiet and he couldn't hear anyone else besides him and Heahmund breathing or making any noise. After he had been put on the bed, Heahmund walked away again - the same five paces - before he closed the door. Heahmund must have walked over to the cabin and opened the door after he had first gotten out of the car so he could easier carry him inside. He seemed in no rush. Aethelwulf must think that wherever they were now was far enough away so that his father and brothers would not easily find him. 

For a while, nothing happened and he was almost tempted to open his eyes just as Heahmund’s voice sounded quietly from the other end of the room. 

“Yes,” He heard him say. “It's all done.” A beat of silence, then: “Understood, Sir.” 

He was talking on the phone - to Aethelwulf, he would assume. Something clattered. It sounded like Heahmund had dropped his phone on a table or something, then he heard fabric rustling, a sigh, and a harsh hiss. Ivar still didn't dare to open his eyes just yet. Maybe being unconscious was all that was keeping him alive. Then again there was nothing that would keep Heahmund from shooting him in the head right now. His rational mind, however, told him to relax. If Aethelwulf wanted him dead, Heahmund would not have brought him all the way out here to shoot him. No, he had time left it seemed. Time enough to escape, perhaps. He wouldn't be able to run away with that leg of his but he would be able to hide in the underbrush of the forest. Well, and then what? He would die out there - From exposure or from his infection. Either way, he would be dead out there, and yet he had to try. He just had to. 

As luck would have it, he noticed, when he was finally brave enough to creak one eye open, that Heahmund was injured. There was no light inside the cabin except for a petroleum lamp that stood on a small round table in the center of the room. He could see that the cabin was no bigger than this one room containing only the narrow bed he was lying on, the table Heahmund sat at with two rickety looking chairs, an old fridge, a camping stove, and a sink. 

The cabin only had one window directly next to the door but the curtains were drawn so that there was no light coming in through that either. Heahmund sat with his back to Ivar. He had stripped out of his shirt and he watched with curiosity how the man was currently stitching up a nasty gash in his right flank. It looked like he had been hit by a bullet. It gave Ivar a sense of grim satisfaction to see that. Knowing about this wound gave Ivar the ammunition he needed. He knew that he wouldn't be able to sneak past Heahmund. His only way out of this situation was direct confrontation. He needed to be lightning-fast despite his fever, despite his injuries, despite the infection ravaging his body. He would not remain here and wait for certain death. 

So, he waited for Heahmund to finish up his task and when he had done so, he quickly screwed his eyes closed again and moaned weakly. That quickly gained him Heahmund’s attention. He heard the man get up and come over to him. A cold hand landed on his forehead, he could feel Heahmund’s breath on his face as the man had to bow down to check in on him.

That was when Ivar struck. With one carefully aimed punch against Heahmund’s injury, the man was left stunned and stumbling away. As quickly as Ivar could muster, he was on the ground and pulled Heahmund’s legs out from underneath the man with the desired effect of the man falling backward and hitting his head against the table. He was out like a light before he smashed into the ground but Ivar knew that he wouldn't be unconscious for long. There was no time to look for a weapon to finish Heahmund off. Instead, Ivar quickly made his way to the door. He found it unlocked as he reached up and turned the handle. His body screamed at him to just lay down but Ivar pushed onward. As quickly as his injuries allowed him to, he crawled out into the wilderness, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what was out there. He had to hide and make it as far away from the cabin as possible even as he could barely maneuver with his injured shoulder.

He didn't know how far he had gotten until he heard Heahmund yell his name for the first time and he was certainly not stopping now. Heahmund’s shouting got farther and farther away and soon, all Ivar could hear was the rustling of the wind through the trees. He kept low to the ground and close to the trees to make it harder for Heahmund to spot him. With every minute that passed, Ivar felt weaker and weaker, his fever making the world around him blurry, his injuries weighing him down. He felt like crawling through quicksand and then before he knew what was happening, the ground beneath his fingers slipped away and sent him tumbling down a ravine.

※※※※※※※

The tip of his fountain pen hovered over the paper as Ragnar straightened his back and put the cap back onto his pen much to Aethelwulf’s confusion. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” Ragnar said. “But I don't think I can sign those papers.”

“My friend,” Aethelwulf replied, his voice sickly sweet and dripping with venom. “Need I remind you that your son is currently my guest?”

“Hm…” Ragnar hummed. “But that's precisely the point, my friend. He isn’t.”

Just at that moment, Aethelred’s phone went off. The young man quickly exchanged a glance with his father before he accepted the call. Ragnar could see the young man blanch, taking a step back then handing the phone to his father. Unlike his son’s face, Aethelwulf’s face became bright red in a matter of seconds. 

“What?” He screamed into the phone. “How is that even possible?”

“You see,” Ragnar said and carefully placed his pen back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I am the type of person who does not like it when someone tries to take what is mine. Of course, I am a man who is able to forgive and forget, we are in a very competitive business, after all. What I can never forgive, however, is when someone tries to fuck with my family. If you would have just started a gang war with me, we would not be here right now, and your henchmen outside would still be alive, dear friend. But you decided to take my boy and for that, I will have you and the entire rest of your ilk slain.”

“I don't understand-” Aethelwulf breathed out as he dropped his son’s phone on the ground. “How-”

“My father was a very paranoid man, you know? You should know. Your father made business with him. If you would have listened to your father, you would have known that. _My_ father was a cruel man but he was right in being paranoid. He instilled in me the knowledge of how important it is to always be informed about what is going on in the world of possible enemies. There is, my friend, not a single crime syndicate on this world that I have no spy in. Of course, establishing someone into a new syndicate is always dangerous and it does not always heed the effect wanted. There is no saying if the person will end up where I want them to end up. In this case, however, I was lucky.”

“That I do not have your son anymore does not change anything. We can still start a war-”

“With what men?” Bjorn asked as he stepped closer with a smile. 

“What?”

“What my son tries to say is that you need funds to form an army. And, if you would check your finances, you would see them drained right now. You see,” Ragnar turned around to usher Sigurd closer who was already scrolling on his phone before showing the display to their enemy. Ragnar didn't need to see the headline to know what it was saying. “it appears your companies went bankrupt in the last three hours. How odd.”

“How-”

“My son Sigurd here has many talents, dear friend. He too did not like it that you stole his little brother and my other children too were not happy with that. Please, go on, check in with your wife and she will tell you that you have nothing left. If she is as smart as I believe her to be, she is on her way to leave Britain with your other son now. I assume Scotland Yard or the MI6 are knocking on your door now as we speak.” He was pleased to see the other man speechless. “You poked the wrong bear, Aethelwulf, and you have lost this war before it even started.”

※※※※※※※

When he came back to it, the world was dark and his breath was wheezing as it got stuck in his chest. His heart was bucking like a wild horse and for a short moment of utter disorientation and panic, Ivar was sure that he was having a heart attack. It was routine that made his left-hand shoot to the pocket of his jeans to search for his inhaler only to find it empty - of course. He fought hard to get his breathing under control even as his lungs were burning. He didn't allow panic to settle into his bones and his heart because if he would, that would be his certain doom and he knew that. He was out here in the wilderness, without his medication and with no one there to help him. His only chance was to be stronger than his illness. So, for the longest time, he remained laying on the ground, rolling over until he was on his back, his spine pressed into the cold hard ground. He closed his eyes against the darkness and focused on his body how he had learned it in the past. Deep breaths, slow and steady.

Another day in the forest came back to him. He remembered hanging onto his brother’s hand for dear life after falling down a ravine. Now none of them were here to help him. The air was cold, the wind harsh as it picked on him, and the night dark. He would die out here. He knew that this was the truth. Even just rolling onto his back had taken all his strength. He wouldn't be able to continue crawling no matter how much he wanted it. And even if he would, he would never find his way back home or to civilization. He was a castaway drifting out on the open sea.

At least, he thought, he had not died with a bullet in his head. At least he had tried to flee, at least he had fought back and proven himself. As he lay there, he found himself going in and out of consciousness, weighed down by the fever and his own broken body that no longer listened to his command.

The next time he opened his eyes, the bright light of a full moon shone down on him and the wind had finally stopped billowing through the leaves of the trees around him. He could hear the gurgling of water and as he turned his head just slightly, he saw a narrow stream that he hadn't even noticed before. An owl was hooting in the distance, twigs were breaking. The sounds of the woods were amplified now that the wind no longer made him deaf. 

He tried to focus on the sounds surrounding him and as he did, he thought that he was hearing voices. At first, he was sure that he had just imagined it but then he heard them again, clearer this time and his heart started racing again. Someone was calling out his name, a deep, gruff voice. Aethelwulf’s henchmen had arrived and were now looking for him. He knew that he had to get up and continue his escape but no matter how hard he tried, his body remained unmoving. 

“IVAR!” Another voice called out, ripping through the very fabric of the night. “IVAR!” This time, he realized with a racing heart, that he knew that voice. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Sigurd…” He whispered, surprised to hear his own voice leave his mouth, and, before he knew it, before he realized that he could do it, he was actually yelling for his brother as loudly as he possibly could.

Everything after that was a blur. He screamed until his voice gave out and his throat burned as if he had swallowed a lit cigarette. It seemed to take an eternity before he saw the beam of a heavy-duty flashlight shoot through the darkness around him and before he heard feed stampeding like a herd of bulls through the underbrush. 

Sigurd reached him first, apparently the closest to where Ivar had been lying uselessly at the foot of a ravine. He had never been so happy to see Sigurd’s face. His brother jumped down the ravine and before Ivar could do anything about it, Sigurd had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, his fingers digging hard into Ivar’s back, Sigurd’s face pressing against the side of his own face, his breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, his body sending warmth into Ivar’s cold bones. It took him a moment before he realized that his brother was crying into his messy hair.

He was safe.

**-End of Chapter 9-**


	10. Chapter 10

He felt weak even as he was breathing with the help of a respiratory mask. Not for the first time, Ivar’s bedroom had been transformed into a makeshift hospital room. His father had the necessary tools to achieve that and due to the nature of his injuries, they had not wanted to bring him to the hospital. People tended to ask uncomfortable questions whenever a sixteen-year-old kid would show up with a gunshot wound in their shoulder, starved, and generally in a bad enough shape to raise some eyebrows. Ivar did not remember getting home at all. When he had woken up for the first time, light had been streaming in through his large windows as the sun had just started to rise. He continued to fall asleep and wake up for the entire day. Only when the next morning arrived, Ivar managed to stay awake for longer than a couple of minutes. 

Long enough for Ubbe to waltz in and check on him. His brother’s face lit up in joy as he found him awake and slowly removing the mask on his face. 

“Chipmunk,” His brother greeted him and caused him to roll his eyes at the old nickname that still seemed to haunt him to this day. How would he ever be able to bring someone home or into this family when his father and brothers would call him that? “How are you feeling?” Ubbe knew no inhibitions as he sat down on the edge of the bed and ruffled his hair despite the thick bandages that were apparently holding his skull together, while his leg was propped up on pillows and, once again, his thigh was put in a splint. It wasn’t the first time he had broken his thigh bone so he knew the drill. The next three to six months would be a massive pain in the ass. Next to his bed, he noticed a drip stand. There was a needle stuck in his arm too, bringing back all the nasty flashbacks from his childhood and all the years he had been stuck in a hospital bed. 

“Like I was run over by a train.”

“A bit extreme perhaps,” Ubbe humored him. “You were only shot, two of your ribs have been cracked, your leg has been broken and you were hit over the head - not that you would have felt that too much with that thick skull of yours.”

“Mhm … yeah … make fun of the cripple, awesome.” Ubbe laughed softly at that before he cupped his face to squeeze his cheeks as if he still could not quite believe that Ivar was awake or back in one piece. Hell, _he_ couldn't believe that he had made it back home in one piece. A part of him was convinced that this right here was nothing but a fever dream. Certainly, he would wake up and find himself in that dark room again, afraid, cold, hungry, and in pain. “Stop it! I am an injured man!”

“I’m just happy to have you back!” Ubbe laughed before he pressed a kiss to Ivar’s forehead all the while Ivar was desperately trying to swat him away like an annoying fly. “Allow me to enjoy it that I can torture you again! I thought I would never see you again, little brother!”

“Yeah, I bet you were really heartbroken about that prospect,” He snorted. “You are probably the only one who is happy to have me back anyway…”

“What?” Ubbe asked as he raised his brows. “Are you kidding me? The entire house was in turmoil because of this. Dad went absolutely bat-shit out of worry. Oh, you should have seen how he took care of Aethelwulf! Oh, man! That shit was wild! And Dad never even left your side since you came back. He was with you the entire time, watching over what the doctors were doing and shit, sleeping in your stupid desk chair - you were probably too high to notice him, all things considered. They gave you quite the cocktail to keep you sedated.”

“Dad was here?”

“What? Of course!” Ubbe frowned. “He was almost biting your doctor’s head off when he treated your injuries! He was really obnoxious! I’m pretty sure he survived exclusively on whiskey and coffee since you have been taken.”

He didn't know what to make of that. It felt weird hearing those things out of the mouth of his big brother. Ubbe never really lied to him - except for that one time he had made him continue to believe in Santa after Hvitserk had spilled the beans - and yet, Ivar couldn't believe the things he was saying now. And how could he after how his father had always been treating him? Maybe Santa was real after all. 

“How long have I been back home?”

“Almost a week,” Ubbe replied dutifully. “You were running a fever, staving off infection, and had to be sedated for most of it. You should have seen it … While we have been out to get you, Floki made sure that the old gym in the basement was transferred into a proper fucking OR! We didn't know after all, how badly you were injured. Good thing he took care of all of that. Your leg had to be fixed, after all. It was a bloodbath down there afterward. But now, dearest brother, you are the proud owner of six new titanium screws in your leg and a brand new metal plate in your ankle. You will light up like a Christmas tree at every security check forever.”

“Great…” Ivar murmured. He couldn't even find it in himself to be surprised about this tale. His father was a man of extremes. Of course, he would make Floki, his oldest and, arguably, best friend, whip up an OR for his sick son out of nowhere. Of course, he would find doctors who were on his payroll to come to fix him back up. He held no illusions about the fact that all this investment had been provoked only by the fact that he couldn't have gotten Ivar to a hospital without raising some eyebrows. 

“How did you find me?” He asked after a moment and grabbed one of Ubbe’s hands with his own to play with his fingers just like he used to do as a child in the hospital. Ubbe’s large hands had always served as a distraction for him whenever the doctors had been talking in hushed voices to each other or his dad as if he couldn't hear them this way and wouldn't know what they were talking about. Ubbe didn't seem to mind it.

“Heahmund, of course.”

“Heahmund?”

“Oh,” Ubbe laughed. “Right, you punched him in his wound and knocked him out, right? Good job by the way but wholly unnecessary.”

“You mean … that guy was one of us?”

“Yeah … Listen, I didn't know about him either. I guess only Bjorn did.” Ubbe rolled his eyes followed by a shrug. “You know how Dad is … We only heard about this man when we met with Aethelwulf for the deal. Bjorn says Dad had Heahmund planted into their organization five years ago. Athelstan knew him - but you have to ask Dad for the details. Five minutes before we arrived at the meeting point, Bjorn got a message from Gyda. It had been agreed that Heahmund would get you out of wherever you have been held and to that cabin in the woods that used to belong to Lagertha’s family and that Heahmund would contact Gyda afterward. Then, after we arrived, we went inside with Aehtelwulf and his men but we had stationed a few more snipers around the perimeter. While we were inside, Aethelwulf’s men were taken out and Dad then dealt with him and his son. As soon as we were done there, we headed out to find you. Well, we didn't expect to find Heahmund injured like this, of course. Dad was furious. I expected him to kill the poor guy.”

He felt stupid. Incredibly fucking stupid. And yet, what was he supposed to think or feel? “Is he … alright now?”

“Yeah, don't worry. Dad had him cared for. He is actually just a couple of doors down right now. Says he doesn't need bed rest - he’s just as much a pain in the ass as you are. I think Dad made the right call.”

“What do you mean?” He felt like he had fallen asleep halfway through a movie only to wake up for the epic conclusion while his brother was quizzing him about the plot twists of the second act. Maybe it was the drugs that were apparently still in his system but he felt incredibly slow - like his old laptop when he had tried to play a new triple-a game.

“Oh, right,” Ubbe said. Maybe Ubbe was the one lagging like his old laptop. “He wants Heahmund to be your bodyguard from now on.”

“My what?”

“Hey, don't shoot the messenger!” Ubbe laughed. 

“I don't need a bodyguard! Isn't it enough already that I am locked up in this house like a bird? Why would I need a bodyguard in here?”

Ubbe grinned at those words and reached out to his face to pull his cheek. “Exactly.”

※※※※※※※

It took Ivar a week until he was allowed to leave his bed again and that was only because Ivar kept nagging everyone coming into his room until Hvitserk finally had mercy on him and helped him into his wheelchair. With his injured shoulder, it was hard for him to move around by himself though so he had to rely on someone to actually push him through the house. 

“No,” Hvitserk said as Ivar said that to him. “I’m not going to push your chair around all day. You have a nanny now, let him push you around. _He_ gets paid for it - _I_ brought you ice cream all week. I had to sneak it past Mama Ubbe and would have paid with my life if he would have caught me in the act.”

“Because you love me.”

“No, because you threatened to kill someone if I didn't.” 

Ivar frowned at his brother but he knew that he should not try Hvitserk’s generosity that was only born out of the worry he had experienced for his little brother. Well, there had to be some benefit to the shit he had gone through, ríght? Already, all his siblings were swarming him, spending time with him. He had asked Ubbe for his favorite hoodie and his brother had given it to him even as it was three sizes too big. In the past, he had always chased him down when Ivar had stolen his clothes. It felt good though, wearing his brother’s hoodie now, drowning in it. The only person he had still not seen was his father. Hell, even Sigurd had spent more time with him than he had all throughout their childhood. Despite what Ubbe had told him, his father had not once shown his face to him since he had woken up. 

“Fine,” Ivar groaned. “Then summon my new nanny already.”

“I don't need to summon him, he is right outside the door.”

“What?”

“He was right outside your door for the past three days,” Hvitserk laughed. “He was meant to stay in bed for at least another week - like you - but he refused to listen to the doctor and take on his new responsibility right away. If I wouldn't know it any better I would say he was fond of you.”

He was truly baffled by this new development. Not only because he had now a bodyguard as it seemed but also because that same man who he had thought to be his enemy was now standing outside his room protecting him - from whatever threat Heahmund thought was roaming these halls. It was all strange to him. What would he even do with a bodyguard? “I still don't get why I would need a bodyguard … You don't have one either.”

“Just … look at the bright side, Ivar. It's dad’s way of telling you that he allows you to go out like you always wanted, right? You can tell Heahmund you want to go to the cinema or go shopping for your own clothes finally. You could go take a stroll with him in Kattegat or visit Floki. Whatever you like. The world is-”

“My oyster?”

“I wanted to say ‘your playground’ but, sure. Whatever floats your boat. You are finally free to go and do wherever and whatever you want, Ivar. Enjoy your freedom. And, next Friday, we will finally go to the movies together, okay? I already told Sigurd and Ubbe.” He couldn't quite help the grin that was pulling on the corners of his mouth. He had always wanted to go to the cinema. There were so many things he had always wanted to do and share with his brothers but now that he was free to do them he felt paralyzed. And, even though he would never admit it, he was afraid to leave the house. “Oh, before I forget. Dad said he wants you to accompany Gyda and Ubbe to a charity event by the end of next week. He wants you to meet Ubbe in the city to get a new suit, you outgrew your last one. Heahmund already knows where to go so … Just follow his lead and if you need something else, Sigurd and I are free today, so…”

“I got it!” He groaned. “You are worse than Ubbe, Hvitserk!” He realized, of course, that Hvitserk was only acting so worried to make it easier for Ivar. 

“Okay, okay, I’m off then!” Hvitserk laughed as he walked to the door and opened it. He heard him exchange a few words with Heahmund that he couldn't quite catch and then Hvitserk vanished into the bowels of the house. A moment later, Heahmund stepped into the room, dressed sharply in a black suit, his face just as unreadable as before.

“Well, this is awkward,” Ivar muttered as he came face to face with the Brit. Not too long ago he had been certain that this man wanted his death. “Sorry for … you know … attacking you.”

He was surprised as Heahmund actually breathed out a chuckle at that. “If you ever get into a situation like this again, I want you to do the exact same thing, Sir.”

“Sir?” Ivar breathed and Heahmund raised one eyebrow in response. “No … Come on. Sir is my father or Bjorn.” It was just weird to be called Sir by a guy like Heahmund who would be his shadow from now on. “Just call me Ivar.”

“As you wish, Ivar.” Strange how his name sounded out of the mouth of this man. 

He needed a moment to collect himself, quickly looking around his bedroom as if there was something that would help him out right now. This whole situation was strange and uncomfortable for him. He wasn't like his siblings. He was not good at making friends - in fact, he had no friends and he could not even blame that he was locked up in here for that. People didn't like him and Heahmund wouldn't like him either. He was unpleasant to be around. He knew that. Knowing that always made him a little nervous when he then would need to talk to someone new. As if Heahmund would know what was going on inside his head, he spoke up again. 

“Your brother told me you are expected to meet Ubbe later in the city. Might I suggest to drive into Kattegat and explore until your scheduled meeting? As I understand, you have never been out of the house before.”

He nodded, his tongue too tied up to actually speak. “Fine … yeah ... but … listen … you can't go like this.” Heahmund seemed confused as he looked down at his clothes. “I don't want to look like I am out and about with a bodyguard.”

Heahmund huffed and bowed mockingly at him. “As you wish. I will be back in five minutes.” And didn't he look relieved to be able to get out of his suit? Just as promised, five minutes later, Heahmund was back in a pair of black jeans, a washed-out grey t-shirt, and a worn leather jacket. He looked like a completely different person - Like a person who would ride a motorcycle. Compared to Heahmund he looked like a potato in Ubbe’s giant hoodie and his torn jeans. He certainly felt like a potato.

He swallowed his sudden burst of self-consciousness and allowed Heahmund to take the reins. Ten minutes later, they were sitting in Heahmund’s car and as he looked over his shoulder at the backseat, he almost expected to see blood on the seats. Apparently, the car had been cleaned, though. It was weird being in this car again, sitting in the front this time. He couldn't help but feel nervous and when he was nervous he started fidgeting and needed to busy his hands so he started playing around with the radio. Heahmund, however, had the patience of a saint.

“Relax,” He said after a while. “You’ll see, it's going to be just fine today.”

“Are you a therapist now?” Heahmund didn't even dignify this with a reply and that frustrated him even more. “What's your deal?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what's your story? How do you know my dad? How old are you? Where do you come from, where did you go - where did you come from Cotton-Eye Joe?”

“Ah,” Hehamund chuckled. “I met your father through Athelstan. Athelstan was a close friend of my family and he took me in after my parents died. I was eighteen when I first met your father. I am twenty-eight now.”

Athelstan, Ivar briefly thought. He remembered the man. He had often been at their house but Ivar had never spent much time around him. He had been a rock for his father - that much he did know - and Bjorn held him in high regard as well.

“And then you started working for him? How have I never heard of you?”

“Oh no, I didn't start working for him then. I joined the army after finishing school and by that point, I was training for the special forces.”

“You were in the special forces?”

“Yes, for a couple of years I was. Went all over the world with them, saw a lot of horrible shit. Then, seven years ago, I got injured in combat.”

“What happened?”

“We were sent to capture the leader of a terrorist cell in Syria but we walked straight into a trap. It was a massacre. I was lucky that I survived. After that, I was unable to go back even though I would have wanted to. That was when Athelstan told me that your dad might have use for me and, as luck would have it, he did have use for me. I worked with Athelstan in London for a while and then your father placed me into Ecbert’s operation. I quickly worked my way up the ranks to ensure that I would be of use for Ragnar to repay him for his generosity. It was sheer luck, though, that Aethelwulf took me with him and put me in charge of you.”

“So, Dad didn't know you would be there?”

“No,” Heahmund sighed. “And if I wouldn't have been, you would be dead right now. Your father was willing to give everything, his entire empire up to save you even though he knew that Aethelwulf would not spare you or anyone else in your family. Luckily, I _was_ there and able to contact your father in time to come up with a plan. The day I took you, Aethelwulf had ordered you to be killed. I was to shoot you in your cell while he was out meeting your father.”

He didn't know what to think about all of that. His father had been actually willing to give everything up instead of starting a war with Aethelwulf? Ivar wasn't stupid. He knew that his father had played with his own life and that of all his children as he had decided against a war with Aethelwulf. Had he just gone to war with Aethelwulf instead, Ivar would have been killed right away but Ragnar would have been victorious in the end. Instead, he had been willing to risk everything, even his entire family, just for the sliver of hope that he might be able to save Ivar. He felt weird knowing that. No, he thought. Surely, his father had calculated the risk he was taking perfectly. Surely, he had never been in any real danger.

He was silent for a while next to Heahmund, just watching the scenery fly past them as they were driving into the city. Heahmund parked the car near the haberdashers that they were supposed to meet with Ubbe at. After that, Heahmund helped him back into his wheelchair and started walking with him. He was nervous and slightly intimidated to finally see the city. He felt overwhelmed by it all, the people, the smells, the cars, the noise. 

It was all a little too much for him now that he was finally out and about while no one was paying him any mind. For some odd reason, he had always thought that people would stare at him the moment he would be able to go into town at last as if he was some kind of alien. Heahmund, strangely enough, seemed to notice and took breaks with him every now and then, dipping into stores to escape the hustle and bustle. At one point, he took Ivar to a small café to have lunch. Inside it was serenely quiet, music playing softly in the background, two other people sitting at their tables and doing their own thing, the coffee maker hissing behind the counter. Ivar took it all in greedily with big eyes and a racing heart.

“Your father said that you have never left the house before but he did not tell me why,” Heahmund addressed him after taking a sip from his coffee. Ivar had started drinking coffee only recently. He had tried it out because everyone in his family liked coffee. Apparently, he was not like his brothers in this regard either as he couldn't stand the taste without pouring tons of sugar into the black liquid. Heahmund’s question almost made him snort.

“Because he kept me locked up in the house like a princess in a tower,” He replied with a roll of his eyes. “It's because of my illnesses - he says.” His choice of wording caused Heahmund to raise one of his eyebrows. As any good bodyguard should be, Heahmund was really quite attentive. 

“And what do you think is the real reason?”

It didn't take long to come up with an answer but he bought himself another few seconds as he took another sip from his coffee. He needed more sugar but he didn't want to ask Heahmund to get him more. “Because he is embarrassed of me,” Ivar said at last with a shrug. “The great Ragnar Lothbrok sired a cripple and a reject. He doesn't want anyone to know I am his son. I mean, everyone knows that he has six children but he never wanted me in the public eye while he told the media that it was my wish to stay out of it. Because of that, there are all kinds of rumors about me - I’ve read about it on the internet.”

Heahmund didn't say anything to this but Ivar could tell that he was thinking about his words. He would love to hear Heahmund’s opinion and yet he didn't ask for it. He didn't think that Heahmund was the type of person who kept his opinions secret if he wanted them out there. It was oddly comforting and easy to talk to him. Ivar couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

“What's so funny?”

“I just thought what an odd turn of events that is,” Ivar replied with a lopsided smile. “Just a little while ago I thought you were my enemy and that you were going to kill me and now I am sitting here with you having coffee.”

“Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Apparently.”

Half an hour later, he met his brother at the haberdashery, and once more he felt like a peasant the way the owner of the shop and his assistants looked at him. They would have probably promptly thrown him out if Ubbe had not entered the shop right behind them and greeted the owner with a friendly smile and a handshake. Immediately, as Ubbe entered the shop, the atmosphere changed. Instead of cold hostility, Ivar was faced with warm excitement. Ass-kissers - all of them. He already hated every single person in the room except for Ubbe and Heahmund.

Getting his measurements was difficult for the tailors because of his broken leg. Heahmund, however, proved to be of great help as he held Ivar tight to help him stand long enough that the measurements for his pants could be taken. He noticed how Ubbe raised his brows at that but didn't say anything. Ivar had also noticed how Ubbe had come to help him but had been upstaged by Heahmund. Usually, Ivar didn't like being touched by strangers. For some reason, however, he didn't mind that Heahmund would touch him. That too was odd to him. He was not fond of physical contact under normal circumstances and there were only a handful of exceptions to this rule. Heahmund, though, emanated a strange sense of safety that he could not quite place his finger on but that he felt drawn towards.

They were at the haberdashery for the entire rest of the afternoon and returned home only when night had already fallen after Ubbe had insisted on taking Ivar to a restaurant first. When they finally arrived home, Ivar was deathly tired and exhausted.

※※※※※※※

By the time Ivar was to accompany his siblings to that charity event, Ivar had almost gotten used to having Heahmund around and his father had yet to make an appearance on the stage of his youngest son’s life. Apparently, he was coming home very late every night and leaving before anyone else was up. In other words, he was avoiding Ivar like he was the plague.

“Stop touching your hair!” Ubbe laughed as he helped him to get ready for the event. “You look fine!”

“I feel silly!” Ivar groaned as he looked at himself in the mirror. By some miracle they had managed to get his leg through those new pants without ripping them with the splint he was wearing on his thigh. He almost didn’t recognize himself sitting in his wheelchair decked out like he was going to some fancy dinner with his brother wearing a matching suit, his hair freshly cut, the sides shaved just like he liked it. Still, he felt weird about all of this. It was only thanks to the pain meds, years of experience, and a high tolerance for pain that he would be able to go through with this at all anyway. It didn't help that Heahmund stood in the corner and fought back a grin. 

“Now stop that and come on. Gyda is waiting for us and you never make a lady wait! That's the first rule if you ever want a girlfriend, Ivar.”

He swallowed the commentary that threatened to spill out of his mouth and instead allowed Ubbe to finish manhandling him into his suit, straightening out his tie and then letting Heahmund take over again. Tonight his bodyguard had switched back into his boring black suit and tie. Sure enough, their sister was already waiting for them in the living room. She had dropped by just a couple of minutes ago to pick up her little brothers in her limousine. Ivar felt weird about all of this. It was his first public outing, the first time he was shown to the world. Suddenly, he was afraid to actually show the world who he was. 

“Look at that!” Gyda exclaimed as she got up from the sofa where she had been sitting and talking with Sigurd and Hvitserk while she waited. As always, Gyda was gorgeous in her long blue dress, her blonde hair in an elegant updo, her makeup on point, and her movements perfectly graceful as she rose. “My handsome brothers have finally finished getting ready. And don't they look charming today?” She huffed as she walked over, greeting Ubbe with a hug before she leaned down to kiss Ivar’s cheek. “My, my … you scrub up nicely, Ivar. I think it's time we separate you from Hvitserk. He is not a good influence on you in terms of style. The people will be blown away tonight.”

“Oh, come on!” Hvitserk groaned. “Stop buttering him up. He’s already so full of himself!”

“You are just jealous he looks better than you,” Ubbe snickered.

“To me, he will always look like a bridge troll!”

“One might say that runs in the family” Sigurd huffed.

“And we are off now!” Ubbe laughed and nodded at Heahmund who swiftly maneuvered Ivar out of the house. He had not often left the house since that first trip into Kattegat. That first trip had been intimidating but he had been to the museum with Sigurd the other day and his brother’s company had been strangely pleasant too. Seeing all those paintings he only knew from the internet in real life had been like stepping into a whole new world.

As he finally sat in the limousine between his brother and his sister, he felt his stomach twist into a thousand knots. He was silent, just bumping his good leg up and down to let out his restless energy. Not long after they had driven into town they could see the hotel the event was taking place in. He had never seen as many cameras and reporters in one spot.

“This was a bad idea,” Ivar muttered. “I shouldn’t even be here … By all means, I should be in bed, resting. I mean … Why did Dad even send me to a red carpet event? So that I can make a fool out of myself when I gracefully fall into my wheelchair? Great first impression!”

“Don't worry,” Gyda smiled and put her arm around him, pulling him close to rest her head against his for a moment. “We will very gracefully help you in to your wheelchair and gracefully maneuver you into the hotel.”

“No, I really think I should just … go home.”

“Listen,” Ubbe huffed. “A few months ago you started a huge fight with Dad about not being included and not being allowed to come with us to that party we had to go to. Now, there is no way out for you anymore. Be careful what you wish for, little brother.”

“And, when in doubt, just do what we do.”

“That is very rarely a good idea,” Ivar replied quietly but already he knew that he had no way out of this. He was helpless. His siblings would just pull him out of this car kicking and screaming and there was nothing he could do about it. He was, once again, being held hostage and this time by his own family. As the moment finally came and they arrived at the red-carpet, his heart was racing. Surely, he thought, this couldn't be good for his health. 

“Take a deep breath,” Gyda smiled. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Yeah, and don't worry. There’s a reason why Gyda gets out first. They won’t pay attention to us when she’s already out there.”

Gyda rolled her eyes but quickly replaced her annoyed look with her best Hollywood smile as the door was opened for her to get out. Ivar watched panicked how his sister got out, how the press people started calling her name to gain her attention. He felt like he couldn't breathe as Ubbe carefully maneuvered around him inside the car to climb out after his sister. It was true, though. The press people did not make as much as a ruckus as they saw Ubbe, still too busy with their big sister. The next thing he knew, he saw Heahmund reaching his hand out for him. His wheelchair was already put in place next to the car. Ivar swallowed but his mouth felt like the desert and Heahmund’s encouraging nod didn't help much either. Still, he shuffled to get closer to the door, and then, without making a fool out of himself, he was in his wheelchair - all thanks to Heahmund’s quick reflexes. He exchanged a small smile with Heahmund before he looked at Ubbe for guidance but his brother just patted his shoulder and together they followed their sister like two loyal dogs.

He felt disoriented as they walked down the red carpet and he was blinded by all the camera flashes. If it wouldn't have been for Heahmund walking behind him and Ubbe walking beside him, he wouldn't have known where to go. His shoulder was still not fully healed but at least he could make it down the red carpet by himself instead of getting pushed by Heahmund. He was relieved to finally be inside, away from the brunt of the media vultures outside even though he knew there were more of them inside. 

It took all but five minutes after they entered the venue until people started swarming them and started talking to them. He got introduced swiftly to all kinds of people after Gyda had pushed a glass of champagne into his hand. At that, he allowed Heahmund to take over his wheelchair again.

It was two in the morning when Heahmund brought him back to his room. He had drunken quite a bit despite the pain meds he was on but Ubbe had always kept an eye on him so that he wouldn't make a clown out of himself and Heahmund had at one point discreetly exchanged every new glass of champagne that had been pushed into Ivar’s hands with water. After all, he was only sixteen.

“That was a successful debut in the public eye, I would say,” Heahmund said as he wheeled him over to his bed. This time, Ivar got out and into his bed by himself. He felt heavy - a good kind of heavy, though. He wondered if that was what it felt like smoking pot. He should ask Hvitserk.

“Do you think so?”

“Sure,” Heahmund huffed and put the chair away. “After you got over your initial nervousness.”

Ivar couldn't help but chuckle at that as he shrugged off his suit jacket and got his tie off. “I was offered a modeling job tonight. I still don't know if this guy just made fun of me or not. I mean a model in a wheelchair? Never heard of that.”

“Well, why not?” Heahmund replied with a crooked smile. “Give it a shot and see what becomes of it. I think you could really make a name for yourself in the industry.”

“I don't want to make a name for myself in the modeling industry. I mean … I want to do what the others are doing. I am smart enough too but Dad doesn't see that.”

“I’m sure he does. But you are still young. You can do a bit of modeling if you really want just at the side until your dad introduces you into the company.” Heahmund shrugged. “I mean, no one says you can’t do both right? Your entire family has quite the media presence anyway. For the general public, you are part of the high society. Your brother Bjorn has been on the Forbes list 30 under 30 for years and Ubbe was twice on the cover of GQ for some reason. Why shouldn't you show your face now that it is out there?”

“I doubt Dad would want me to.”

“Even though Mr. Lothbrok is my employer, Ivar, I think you should care less about what your father wants.”

**-End of Chapter 10-**


	11. Chapter 11

His son’s face looked back at him from the cover of a magazine that was lying on his desk in the office. As he stared down at his son’s piercing blue eyes looking back at him, he didn't quite know what to think about it. Gyda had warned him that Ivar had decided to dabble in modeling but he had not expected it to take off that quickly. In fact, the whole magazine had dedicated their latest issue to Ivar. 

He had expected the media to latch onto Ivar the moment his son would step into the public eye. It had been a calculated move on his part as to not draw too much attention to his involvement in what had happened on the other side of the pond. What he had not calculated was that his son would become such a phenomenon in such a short time. Every tabloid and gossip tv show was full of news about his youngest child. To say that the entirety of Norway was obsessed with Ivar Lothbrok was the understatement of the century. In the magazine in front of him, in-between the photos that one of Norway's most prolific photographers had taken, Ivar was talking about his illnesses and the reasons why he had stayed out of the public until now in a long-winded interview.

“You have to give it to him,” Bjorn huffed as he pointed at the magazine. He had almost forgotten about his son’s presence. Now Bjorn, who had come by for a meeting, stood a few feet away from his desk near one of the huge panorama windows that were overlooking the bay of Kattegat, his body turned half towards his father. His assistant had actually bought all those magazines for him earlier today. He recalled the huge smile on her face as she had placed them down on his desk. “He is photogenic.”

“That he is,” Ragnar sighed. “He has his father’s good looks.”

“Mhm, sure!” Bjorn barked out a laugh. “He’s doing good, though. I didn't think he would adapt to this so quickly and easily. Well, Heahmund is a great help to him, they get along swimmingly. I have never met anyone who could hold their own against Ivar as he does. He doesn't even look like he wants to drown Ivar on a regular basis!”

“Astonishing.”

“You don't sound too happy, Pops.”

“Well, I am happy that he is doing well and that he’s getting along with Heahmund,” Ragnar said, waving his son’s concerns away. Bjorn, however, had always been good at reading his father. It came with the territory, he would assume. After all, they had been working together now for at least ten years. “When I decided to employ Heahmund as Ivar’s bodyguard I feared that I would face more resistance from Ivar in the matter. He’s not usually getting along well with other people.”

“But?” Bjorn inquired ever so patiently. He got that from his mother. Ragnar was not naturally a patient man. He had to learn patience throughout his career. 

“ _But,"_ He then said. “I can not help but be worried now that he is out in the public eye like this. You know your brother. He is an Icarus - we don't want him to get too close to the sun.”

“I doubt that will happen.”

“Is that so?” Now, his son had his unbridled attention as Ragnar Lothbrok leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised and his hands leisurely on the armrests of his chair.

“Yeah … I mean, perhaps that would be more of a risk if he wouldn't have someone at his side to rein him in,” Bjorn said as he slowly walked over towards the desk and sat down heavily on one of the two armchairs opposite of his father’s desk with a heavy sigh. “Imagine him having a doting girlfriend, for example, too afraid to talk back to him. Then we would certainly need to brace for a massive fallout but I think Heahmund will be able to talk sense into him even when Ivar won’t be listening to any of us again - as per usual. At first, I was unsure if you didn’t just add gasoline to the flame when you introduced Heahmund into Ivar’s life like this but now I think this guy is actually a good influence on him. Ivar seems to respect him even. And you should see him at home, Dad! He’s no longer looking like a bridge troll half the time.”

Ragnar breathed out a snort at that comment before gazing quickly back down onto one of those magazine covers. Despite everything, he was proud to see Ivar like this. “I am sure Hvitserk is sad that he had lost his fellow bridge troll.”

“He will get over it. Maybe he will be inspired by Ivar’s new love for fashion,” Bjorn laughed even though they both knew that Hvitserk would never change anything about the way he would dress outside of official business. “You should talk to Ivar, though.”

“I will.”

“Dad, come on!” Bjorn groaned. “You have not spoken to him in what? A month? Two months? Ubbe says that ever since Ivar woke up, you have made it a point to not meet him when you are home! Ubbe keeps telling him that you were there the entire time after he got home up until he woke up but now you are _ghosting_ your own son! How are we supposed to explain that to Ivar, huh?”

“I don't owe you or him an explanation, Bjorn. I have other things to do now than hold Ivar’s hand and you know that. I already spent too much time with this whole affair.”

“Affair- Dad, are you kidding me?”

“Not at all,” Ragnar sighed. “Dispatching of Aethelwulf has opened up a world of new possibilities for us, Bjorn. I have to talk to Rollo and make a plan of how we want to proceed from here on out.”

“Fine,” Bjorn replied and threw his hands up in defeat. “Whatever you say, Dad. Let's talk business then.”

※※※※※※※

**August 2016**

Norway was experiencing a heatwave and Ragnar Lothbrok wanted nothing more than to strip out of his suit and jump in the pool as he returned home from the office. The AC had stopped working midway through the day and when he had no longer been able to stand the heat, Ragnar had packed up his stuff and drove home. The house was heavenly cool and silent as he walked in. It was the silence, however, that tipped him off. Sigurd, Ubbe, and Hvitserk were still out of the house and he didn't expect them home before nightfall. It was summer, after all. They were probably out with their friends at the beach. Still, Ivar would be home and Ivar was _never_ silent. Lately, especially the kid was testing out how much it took to drive everyone inside this house insane with the loud music he would be blasting. He would turn thirteen soon, after all, and had apparently decided to start his teenage rebellion a little early. 

There was no loud music though and he didn't hear the TV inside the living room either. A small glance at his rolex told Ragnar that right now should be the time when he would usually find Ivar watching those cartoons he didn't want anyone knowing he was watching. His tutor would have already left too by now. Sometimes Ragnar thought that he was a little cruel to have Ivar tutored even during summer break while his older brothers got to enjoy their free time but he knew that Ivar did not really mind. He also knew that Ivar had a sharp mind that always craved stimulation. During the summer break this year he was tipping his toes into more advanced studies. Maybe he would be able to do some college classes before he would graduate from high school if he would keep it up like this.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Ragnar decided to shrug off his suspicion and instead went upstairs to change. He would resume work later when it had cooled down a little. As he returned to the first floor, Ragnar quickly made his way outside and towards the pool. At first, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary, then his eyes caught on a couple of clothing items on a launch chair. There was no one in sight, though. At a second glance, he recognized Ivar’s clothes. As he realized that, he felt alarm rising inside of him. Quickly, he ran over to the edge of the pool. There, on the bottom, he saw the figure of his son, motionless. Without wasting another second and without another thought, he jumped in the water, dove to the bottom of the pool, and grabbed his son by the arms. In a matter of seconds, he had found his son’s motionless body and dragged it back up to the surface. Getting Ivar out was the more difficult part about this but Ragnar succeeded, in the end, without a clue how he did it. 

In retrospect he would claim that it was his parental instinct kicking in, not allowing him to think but making his bodywork fast. He was at his son’s side in a matter of seconds, checking his pulse before rolling him onto his side and slamming his hand flat between his shoulder blades. A surge of water came bursting out of Ivar’s mouth, followed by a painful cough as he threw up even more water.

“You’re okay … you’re okay…” He heard himself mutter as he patted Ivar’s back carefully, waiting for him to let it all out before Ivar started taking in a shuddering breath again. “I’m here, everything is okay… just breathe, Chipmunk. Breathe.”

It took a couple of minutes but then Ivar finally regained control over himself and started breathing evenly again. He slowly helped him to sit up on the stone tiles of the patio but he left his hand on Ivar’s back, feeling the vibrations going through the boy as he took in air to fill his weak lungs. For a moment, he was certain that he needed to find Ivar’s inhaler but then he calmed down by himself. Now that the worst had been dealt with and his fear and worry started to subside, anger had a chance to fester and explode inside his chest. 

“What happened? Did you fall in or something?”

“No…” Ivar wheezed. He truly looked miserable how he sat there, trying to catch his breath and still in shock from his latest near-death experience. “No ... I just … I went for a swim…”

“You … What? What were you thinking?” He didn't mean to raise his voice at his son but it couldn't be helped either as the truth sunk in.

“It's a million degrees, Dad!” Ivar shot back insolently as always even as his lips were blue and trembling. “Ubbe, Hvitty, and Sigurd are at the beach having fun and I just wanted to go in the pool, or am I not allowed to?”

“Of course you are!” Ragnar growled. “But not alone! Are you crazy, Ivar? What if I had not come home early? What if I had not come out here to jump in the pool myself? You would have drowned! You know that you are not supposed to go in the water by yourself! You can't swim!”

“Yeah, maybe drowning wouldn't have been such a bad thing!” Ivar spat. “At least then my family would finally be rid of me!”

He had never hit any of his children. No matter how furious he had been with them, no matter how big of a mess they had gotten themselves into, he had never hit them. Now, however, the sound of his hand hitting the side of Ivar’s face seemed to echo through the entire house. Red marks in the shape of his own fingers started to blossom on Ivar’s cheek and tears quickly filled his son’s blue eyes. Instead of apologizing, however, Ragnar pointed one trembling finger at the door leading back into the house. 

“Out of my sight,” He said, his voice a low growl. “Inside, Ivar. _Now_. I don't want to see you again today.”

Ivar quickly started retreating, he knew better than to argue, knew better than to provoke his father. Yet, Ragnar’s heart broke as he heard the sob that escaped his son as he dragged himself back into the house like a snake. His hands were trembling as he dragged them over his face. Fuck. Father of the year. That was who he was.

※※※※※※※

Ragnar was alerted by the sound of the roaring engine of a motorcycle driving rounds at the front of the house. Not that this would be that unusual. Every single one of his boys had gotten a motorcycle license - except for Ivar, of course. The sound was familiar. He himself was the proud owner of a bike and had gone on a couple of tours with his boys in the past. He also knew, however, that none of his boys, except for Ivar, were home and none of them would drive in circles like that for no other reason than driving him mad. With a sigh, he got up from his chair and left his office to go have a look at what this commotion was all about. He was already pissed to be pulled from his work again as he walked out into the driveway. What he saw outside didn't make his mood any better. If anything, he was about to explode as he saw what was going on outside. Heahmund was driving his bike, behind him, his arms tightly wrapped around his bodyguard’s waist, sat Ivar and was cheering him on. At least they were both wearing helmets.

For a split second, Ragnar recalled Bjorn’s words. Perhaps he really had added gasoline to the flame when he brought Heahmund into this house.

“What the hell is going on here?” He erupted before he could remind himself to remain composed. He was furious as he saw Ivar on that bike and even more so that Heahmund, the man he paid to keep Ivar safe, was driving it. To Heahmund’s credit, he did not just jump on the brakes but actually came to a smooth stop just a few paces away from Ragnar.

Ivar took off the helmet he was wearing to glare at his father. Right then it struck Ragnar that he was coming face to face with his youngest child for the first time in nearly two months. Not once he had checked on Ivar and the state of his injuries personally - which didn’t mean that he wouldn't know about any of it. He paid good money, after all, for Ivar’s doctor to come in regularly to check on him and report back to Ragnar. And yet, he couldn't help but feel like a complete failure of a parent. As he walked over to the duo, Heahmund was getting off the bike slowly and took his own helmet off.

“Sir, I-”

“You, shut your mouth!” Ragnar hissed at the young Brit. He wanted to scream at him but he kept his voice low instead. “You are fired, Heahmund. How dare you fucking drive around on your bike with my son? Are you crazy? And I don't want to hear anything from _you_ , Ivar!”

“Dad! Come on, Man! I practically forced him to-”

Ivar’s head snapped to the side as Ragnar’s hand made contact with his cheek. He hadn't planned on hitting his son. Not that anyone would ever actually plan on hitting their children. Ragnar, however, was filled with unbridled rage at the sight before him. Blood was rushing hot through his veins and his head, white noise vibrated in his skull and sung in his ears so loudly that he could hardly hear himself think. His right hand tingled where it had made contact with his son’s face. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed how Heahmund’s stance had shifted the second he had witnessed Ragnar hitting his son and before Ragnar had time to actually realize what was happening, Heahmund was between Ivar and him, building a physical wall between them to shield Ivar from his father. 

It was as if he was doused with ice-water as Heahmund stepped between them and that, finally, made him take a step back. He dragged a hand down his face as he took another step back. “You,” He pointed at Ivar. “back inside. And _you_ , pack your stuff.”

“No!” Ivar growled and shoved Heahmund to the side before he swung his left leg over the bike, facing his father with his entire body. “He stays!”

Ragnar stepped closer again, so close that he would only need to extend his hand to touch his insolent child. “I am your father, Ivar, and I-”

“Are you?” Ivar’s words were like a slap themselves. “My father? You’ve never been much of a fucking father to me! So, stop acting as if you were! You never even came to me after I came back! Why would I care about anything you have to say to me now? Huh? What kind of a father just abandons his son?” Ivar pushed him so hard and so suddenly in his chest that he almost lost his footing. “I don't have to listen to anything you say to me!”

“As long as you live-”

“Under your roof? Fuck you! I make my own money now! I don't need to stay here! And why would I? It's not like you want me here anyway! All you want is to control me! Lock me up! I am a disgrace to you! You are ashamed of me! Maybe I should just do us both a favor and leave!”

“Yes, maybe you should!” Ragnar hissed before he turned around and walked towards his car. He couldn't stay here a second longer, even though everything inside of him screamed that he should stay and talk to his son. He was his father, after all. He was meant to lead this stubborn boy. And yet, every time he talked to Ivar they would fight and butt heads and he would end up leaving his boy, abandoning his boy. 

Even after he had almost lost him, even as his son had almost been killed by his enemy, he was still unable to be a father to this insufferable boy.

※※※※※※※

“What are you doing?” Ubbe sounded exasperated as he spoke to him from the open door. “Ivar…”

“I’m packing my shit! What does it look like, huh? I knew you were slow, Ubbe, but I did not realize that you were also blind!” He spat and sent a glare his brother’s way.

“Yes, I can see that you are packing your stuff … It's just that I would really like to know why,” Ubbe huffed and walked into the room. Ivar, however, ignored him as he kept stuffing his clothes into a suitcase - a suitcase that was not even his but that he had stolen from Hvitserk. Never mind the fact that his packing was very much uncoordinated and clumsy since he had never packed a suitcase before. He would, of course, never admit that he had absolutely no fucking clue what to pack and what not and was painfully reminded of his few futile attempts of running away from home as a child. He should absolutely pack his shark. He couldn’t leave him behind. Ubbe crouched down beside him and started taking all the clothes back out of his suitcase.

“Hey! Stop that! You can not stop me from leaving, Ubbe!”

“I’m not even going to try,” Ubbe sighed that long-suffering sigh he was so familiar with by now. “But for the love of God and all that is holy, fold your clothes. Have you been raised in a barn?"

"Folding doesn't spark joy, Miss Kondo."

Over their squabbling, he hadn't even heard the sound of two other pairs of approaching footsteps. Only as Sigurd’s voice chimed in, did Ivar realize that they were having an audience. Of course, his brothers couldn't just let him be. For years they had been living their lives ignoring him as much as they could and now they would never leave him alone! It was insufferable!

"What’s going on?" Sigurd asked from the door.

"Our brother moves out."

"Finally!" Hvitserk laughed and walked in. Without hesitation, he grabbed a bunch more of Ivar’s clothes from his walk-in closet and dumped them in his suitcase.

“Folding, Hvitserk! Folding!”

“Should I get the car ready?” Sigurd asked with a grin as he too walked into the room. He watched Sigurd make a beeline to Ivar’s bed and pluck his plush shark from his bed. “Where should we drop you off?”

“Shouldn't you, my loving brothers, try to stop me?”

“What?” Hvitserk cawed. “Of course not! We’ve been waiting for this moment for sixteen years!”

He couldn't help but snort at that. “Yeah, so did Dad.” While Ubbe folded his clothes diligently, Hvitserk pressed a kiss to the side of his head in response.

“Poor Ivar … poor Ivar…” He cooed with a smirk. “Poor, unloved Ivar.” He jumped at Hvitserk before the man could do anything about it, knocked his legs out from under him to get Hvitserk down on his level, and started pummeling him under the cheers of his other two brothers. 

“Hit him!” Sigurd cheered, the plush shark still in his grasp. “Hit him, Ivar!”

A cough alerted them of the presence of another person and as Ivar stopped attacking his big brother and looked up at the newcomer, he was not surprised to find Heahmund standing at the door with a duffel bag over his shoulder.

“I don't want to interrupt anything,” Heahmund began and though he tried to look all serious, Ivar could see the hint of a smirk pulling at the left corner of Heahmund’s mouth. “I just want to say goodbye. My flight back to England is leaving in three hours.”

It was like a punch in the guts and his brothers seemed to notice his change in demeanor right away. Hvitserk pushed him off of him with ease and Ubbe quickly rose to his feet. “We will help you pack later,” Ubbe said quickly and ushered his other two brothers out of Ivar’s room. Heahmund nodded at Ubbe before stepping into the room. He ignored Ivar’s chaos - after all, he was used to the sight by now. 

“You don't have to pack, Ivar,” He said calmly. “You don't have to leave your father like this just because he fired me.”

“What an inflated ego you have, Heahmund! You are delusional if you think I would care whether you stay or go!” He spat as he said up straight and leaned his back against his bed. Sigurd, that bastard, had taken the shark with him. “I’m not leaving because Dad fired you! I’m leaving because my father doesn’t want me here. And my brothers don't want me here either.”

“Who’s delusional now, dear Ivar?” Heahmund chuckled and sat down on the ground in front of him, in the midst of Ivar’s chaos. “If you can not see how much your brothers love you, I am truly sorry. And your father loves you more than his own life.”

Ivar scoffed and brushed Heahmund’s words off in throwing a sock at him that he had found sticking out from underneath his bed. “I don't want you to leave Norway,” He then confessed. “You are my only friend. Isn't that pathetic? You were paid to be by my side but still, you were the only friend I ever had.”

“You have your brothers.”

“But they have no choice in the matter,” Ivar said with a shrug. “They are stuck with me whether they like it or not. They are no friends. Then again … I know I cannot force you to stay, I guess. After all, what choice did you have, right?”

“Ivar, I’m telling you something about my work now,” Heahmund sighed. “Yes, your father did pay me to be your bodyguard, to protect you. This payment did not include being your friend. That was a choice I made freely. And I will remain your friend even when I leave to go home. You, however, should not leave. You are a child, Ivar.”

“I will turn seventeen in a few months!” Ivar shot back in annoyance. “I will graduate early this winter, start college, and this time I can actually go there too! I am not a child any longer. I am a man now and I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want! I could go to England with you! I always wanted to leave Norway anyway. I could go to Oxford or Cambridge.”

“Why would you follow me? Your life is here, Ivar.”

“I don't want you to leave…”

Heahmund chuckled at those pathetic words - or maybe at the scowl on Ivar’s face. Hvitserk would always claim he looked like a beaten puppy when he would scowl like he was now. “I am not gone forever, Ivar. And we can stay in contact.”

“And why would you want to stay in contact with a cripple?”

“Because we are friends,” Heahmund huffed and patted his shoulder. Ivar had no other choice but to watch him get up. “Also, I would assume it will be impossible to escape you. Your face will remain to be all over magazine covers and talk shows. I will never escape Ivar Lothbrok, it seems.”

※※※※※※※

He was not at all surprised to find his son Ivar sitting outside on the grass when he returned home that day. It was late, the moon stood high in the sky, the stars shone brightly down upon him as he stepped outside through the glass doors into the garden and Ivar was sitting in the grass, brushing his fingers through it and just enjoying the silence, as it seemed. It was cold outside but that didn't seem to bother the boy. After everything that had happened between them today, Ragnar didn't want to disturb him, and yet he couldn't just walk away either. This had to end. He knew that things couldn't continue the way they had been between him and his little boy. The same little boy he had sworn to protect with his life. The same little boy who had been so tiny that he had easily fit in one of his hands when he was born. Why was Ivar so different from his other boys, Ragnar wondered. Why was it that they always clashed? 

“My father,” Ragnar said and Ivar didn't even flinch, as if he had already heard him. “was a cruel man. He was hard and uncaring, cold and demanding. When I first became a father, when Gyda was born and Bjorn followed her shortly thereafter, I promised myself that I would never be like this. I promised myself that I would be a better father, that I would be caring and show my children how much I loved them. More importantly, I promised myself that I would never raise a hand against them, unlike my father who beat me and Rollo into submission at the first sign of defiance. I always thought that I succeeded in that. I realize now that I have failed spectacularly when it came to you.”

He sat down heavily beside Ivar in the grass after he had bridged the distance between them. Ivar’s gaze remained directed forward, though, as if he couldn't even stand looking at him now. 

“Don't worry, I will leave soon.”

“No you won’t,” Ragnar decided.

“You can no longer hold me prisoner here, father.”

“I made a great many mistakes raising you.”

“See?” Ivar huffed. “And there you made another one right here. _You_ didn't raise me. Ubbe raised me - and he did a damn good job at that.”

“I agree,” Ragnar sighed. He couldn't even claim that Ivar’s words weren’t the truth. Ubbe had done all the things that he should have done. A child himself, Ubbe had been at his brother’s side, took care of him, and made sure he wouldn't be afraid at night. For a long time, Ragnar had been angry watching those two together. Ivar had always listened to his big brother, hanging onto his every word, watching Ubbe as if his brother had hung the moon and the stars in the night sky. Then came the realization that Ubbe was not at fault in all of that. The boy had only stepped into the place that Ragnar had left empty and filled a vacuum in his baby brother’s life. And if Ubbe had not done that, it would have been Hvitserk, perhaps even Sigurd. “He did a good job. But it should have been me.”

“And yet, you couldn't stand to look at me.”

“That is not true, Ivar.” As Ivar scoffed at his words, he bumped his shoulder hard against his son’s. “It is _not_ true. When you were born, you were tiny … you were barely as big as a coconut. When I first held you in my arms, you fit in one of my hands and my heart broke in two. Now you are as tall as me and almost a man and still every time I look at you, my heart breaks. You have never been a disgrace, Ivar and it pains me that you think that you were. From the moment I held you, I loved you more than my own life, perhaps even more than your brothers, and all I ever wanted was to protect you. I locked you up in this cage because I thought you would be safe here. The world is an ugly place. It is cruel and it feeds on the weak. I thought you were weak, I thought you were too fragile to survive out there. You were too precious to me to let you out into the world. And yet, even this cage could not protect you from harm. I should have known better than to think that because, at the end of the day, the world always finds a way inside, right? It always finds a way to sink its teeth into the things most precious to us.”

He was silent for a moment and was surprised that Ivar didn't make any stupid comment at his expense. Perhaps he was judging him too harshly.

“I thought your legs were a weakness, Ivar. I thought … your illnesses would keep you back. I thought that you wouldn't survive. Those days and weeks after you were born … That was the hardest time of my life. But I was wrong. Your legs and your illnesses gave you a strength that not even your brothers possess. You are like a deaf man whose eyesight is sharper than anyone else. You are special. Not in spite of your legs, but because of them.”

“I think…” Ivar spoke up, much softer and quieter than he had heard this insufferable child talk in a long time. “that’s the first time you’ve ever admitted to being wrong.”

“It’ll never happen again, so enjoy it,” He huffed and Ivar joined him with a small snort. Maybe the problem was that they were too much alike. “You are insufferable,” He then said quietly. “You remind me too much of myself. I think that is why we always end up butting heads.”

“I am always so angry…” Ivar confessed with a soft sigh leaving his lips after a moment of silent contemplation. 

“Your anger is a gift, Ivar,” He said quietly. “A gift that I know well. All my life I have been angry and restless. My mother said I was possessed by an evil spirit when I grew up. I brought her much grief. When I look at you, I can see that same evil spirit inside of you, raging inside that thick skull of yours. Use your anger intelligently, Ivar, and you will get very far. You don't think like other men, you are unpredictable, yet, people will always underestimate you. That will be your strength. One day, Ivar, you will lead this family.”

“But Bjorn-”

“Bjorn has no real interest in leading and neither does Ubbe,” Ragnar chuckled. “I can see it very clearly now, that one day, you will be the future of our legacy, that you will propel what our family has built into new heights.”

He was surprised as Ivar leaned his head against his shoulder. For the first time in years, Ragnar was allowed to put his arm around Ivar and pull him into his side. “When you were little, you never wanted me to touch you,” Ragnar laughed softly and quickly brushed a rogue tear from his cheek. “You screeched like a banshee when I tried to pick you up. You only allowed Bjorn and Ubbe and sometimes even Gyda to comfort you. My heart broke every time you would fight me when I tried to pick you up. At some point, I thought it would be easier and better for both of us to just … stay away from you then.”

Now, however, Ivar was leaning into him, allowing his petulant mask to slip and showing his vulnerable, soft, gooey core. It was a precious moment for Ragnar and he could tell that it was for Ivar too. For a few minutes, they sat like this in silence, neither of them daring to speak and disrupt this moment. It was Ivar, however, who spoke up first again.

“You need to call Heahmund back,” He said quietly.

“Why?”

“I’m a cripple, Dad. I need a bodyguard.”

**-End of Chapter 11-**


	12. Epilogue

Heavy snowfalls made the roads into the mountains almost impassable and the weather was meant to stay so bad for at least three more days. Of course, Ragnar Lothbrok and his kids were lucky to be inside. He had always loved those snowy mountain retreats for the holidays with his kids. When the boys had been little, they had spent hours and hours sledding outside going up and down the mountain without ever tiring of it. They had stopped coming out here like this when Ivar was born. 

From his spot on the couch, he watched how Hvitserk and Ubbe were decorating the giant Christmas tree that Ragnar had felled with Bjorn just yesterday when they had arrived at the cabin. Hvitserk was standing on top of a ladder trying to get the star on the top of the tree while Ubbe was yelling orders at him. His sons had not much of an eye for decoration, that was more Sigurd’s forte but his younger son was lounging on a chair near the bay window reading a book, uncaring for his brothers’ plight while Bjorn was dutifully refilling empty eggnog glasses. It was a shame that Bjorn had come alone this year. Ragnar would have liked spending some more time with his grandchildren, but Bjorn and Torvi were going through a rough spot in their marriage. Ragnar respected his son’s decision to come out here alone while Torvi was spending Christmas with their kids and her parents instead. He could only hope that Bjorn and Torvi would mend their differences soon. 

“Where’s Ivar?” Sigurd asked at one point and threw a meaningful glance at the grandfather clock at the side of the room. “He’s running late. He’s never running late.” 

Sigurd was right of course and Ragnar could barely hide the worry that was creeping up on him - despite the eggnog in his system. Ivar was supposed to have arrived earlier this morning. The rest of them had arrived yesterday but Ivar’s plane had only landed in the wee hours of the morning. He hadn't been able to make it back from England sooner and now they were all eager to see their fledgling again. It was always exciting when Ivar would return home for a couple of weeks during semester breaks. This was the last year of his university life and Ragnar was sure he was making the most of it. In fact, he had been surprised as Ivar had announced that he, once again, would only bring Heahmund with him instead of some girl. 

Sometimes he was a little disappointed to hear that Ivar still had not found a girlfriend but then again, his son had always kept his own time and pace with everything. He remembered a brief fling with a girl named Freydis that he had met at Oxford but then, all of a sudden, he had stopped talking about her as if she had never even existed in the first place. When they had seen him again shortly after that phase, Ivar had been moody and grouchy the entire time, not letting anyone near him except for Heahmund. 

“Ah,” Ubbe chuckled. “Don't worry, I’m sure he’ll arrive soon enough. They probably have a hard time getting up here with all this snow.”

“That's what I’m worried about!” Sigurd replied with a frown. “I mean, there’s a blizzard coming, and what if they got snowed in and are stuck out there? They could freeze to death!”

“Then he would have made a peep already,” Bjorn replied with a huff. “Or Heahmund would have. Let’s be honest, he is far more responsible than our baby.”

“We barely have any cell reception out here though!” Sigurd argued back, not deterred in the slightest by his brother’s calm reaction to the possibility of Ivar being stuck in a snowstorm. To Ragnar, it was miraculous to see how much Sigurd’s relationship with Ivar had changed ever since that unfortunate kidnapping a few years ago. They still were not nearly as close as Ivar and Ubbe were or even Hvitserk and Ivar but by now, Sigurd made real efforts of spending time with his brother and being nice to him - which in turn would irritate Ivar so much that he would start fights with his brother.

“And since when did you become such a worrywart about the baby?” Hvitserk laughed. His words had the desired effect if the desired effect had been to make Sigurd blush. It was true though. Ever since Ivar had left home to go study abroad in Oxford, Sigurd often talked about his baby brother and often called him or showed great worry for him. He missed Ivar, that much was clear. He missed Ivar and he missed fighting with Ivar and every time they would get a call from Heahmund announcing that the insufferable brat had landed himself in the hospital again, Sigurd would be the first to book a flight.

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!”

“I’m just saying … with his condition and the cold … it's dangerous out there. We all know that he’s getting worse and worse lately. He shouldn’t risk anything. _We_ shouldn’t risk anything.”

Immediately, even Hvitserk was silenced by these words. There was an unspoken rule in their family as of late. They did not openly talk about Ivar’s condition or the fact that he got worse and worse with each passing month. This year alone he had been hospitalized four times already because of his heart. They all knew that his time was running out and yet none of them acknowledged it because Ivar too refused to acknowledge it. He was on the list for a heart transplant for a while now but they all knew how hard it was to actually get one. Ragnar with his ties would be able to get him one quicker, of course, but so far Ivar had refused to take him up on that offer. Another unspoken rule in their family was that Ragnar would not ask his youngest child anymore when the time came to make a decision. Ivar would lead a full life - no matter the cost, no matter what Ragnar had to do to achieve that.

“Maybe we should try looking for them?” Ubbe asked after a while. As they looked out of the window, the conditions did not seem any better than an hour ago. Snow was piling up outside the cabin but since the cabin was on stilts, Ragnar had no fear of them getting snowed in. “The storm should lessen by nightfall. That’s what they said on the news.”

“We will go if we have not heard anything of Ivar until then.”

And so the waiting game began. Sadly for them, Gyda was the only member of their family who had at least an inkling of patience. Well, she had to be patient to be able to deal with her father and her younger brothers all the time. It was also Gyda who tried to distract the men as she was making hot cocoa and demanded they would play a board game as they had as children before she forced Sigurd to pick up his guitar and start playing. 

By the time night fell, they had all almost forgotten about the dire situation Ivar might be in thanks to Gyda’s carefully crafted plan of distraction. Almost. As Ragnar finally stepped outside, it was pitch black outside but it had stopped snowing. “The cars are completely snowed in,” He commented dryly.

“He will get here,” Gyda said as she stood beside him and grabbed her father’s arm gently. “Don't worry, Dad. I’m sure he is alright.”

Those quiet moments with his daughter were rare with everything that was going on in their lives. So he was thankful that she was here now as he put his arms around her. His compass. Always guiding him in the right direction. “It's just … I’m so afraid for him.”

“I know,” She smiled. “I am too.” And he knew that she did not mean their current situation, that she did not mean the blizzard or the reason why Ivar was not here yet. Gyda was just as worried as Ragnar was. “I think of him every day when I wake up and every night when I go to sleep. And every day I am afraid to get a call that he’s in the hospital again, that his heart finally gave up or something else might have happened. I am just glad that he has Heahmund by his side.”

“Yeah,” Ragnar huffed. “I would have never thought they would become such close friends.”

Suddenly, Gyda stared at him wide-eyed and surprised for a reason he could not quite fathom before a snorting laugh escaped her that was not too unlike that of her brother Hvitserk. “Friends?” She echoed indignantly and a little higher pitched than normal. 

“Yes? What's so funny?”

“Oh, Dad…” She laughed. “Daddy, no … Did you never ask yourself why Ivar never had a girlfriend again after Freydis?”

“What do you mean?” 

Instead of telling him, however, Gyda stepped back inside and she was still laughing. A moment later, at least two of her brothers joined her in whatever inside joke they were apparently all sharing. 

Deciding that it was not worth his time to figure out whatever it was that amused his children so greatly, Ragnar quickly went to grab a warm blanket, stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and sat down on the bench on the porch that wrapped around the house. He allowed himself to think about sitting here with his children, with Bjorn and Gyda when they were little, and later with Ubbe, and Hvitserk. He remembered holding Gyda in his arms, wrapped in a blanket like he was now, and explaining the stars to her.

They had stopped doing that when Ivar was born. He had been too sick and too weak. But, in secret, Ragnar had missed it. He had bemoaned not being able to hold both Sigurd and Ivar in his arms like he did his daughter and his other sons to explain the stars to them and tell them stories about their old Gods.

He was pulled from his thoughts as he saw lights coming up the mountain. The road leading towards their rather secluded cabin was hidden under thick layers of powdery snow and yet there was a car fighting its way up the mountainside. A laugh escaped his throat at the sight and he quickly got up to greet the new arrivals as Heahmund Bishop skillfully parked the jeep next to Bjorn’s black SUV. It did not take long for Heahmund to get out of the car and he waved at Ragnar as he saw him approach.

“Sorry for running late, Boss!” He called. “ _Someone_ was a bit of a diva this morning and wouldn't get their ass out of bed so we missed our flight!”

“ _Someone was a bit of a diva?_ ” He heard Ivar’s voice as the boy opened his door. There was no point in getting his wheelchair. He would not be able to use it in the snow. Heahmund still walked over to the trunk and pulled it out, together with their duffel bags. “ _Someone?_ Who was like _‘Oh, we don’t need skid chains, Ivar! I know what I am doing, Ivar!’_?”

“Yeah, and who forgot their meds at home so we had to make a detour?”

“ _You_ forgot your phone! How does someone forget their phone, Heahmund?” Ivar cawed back at his bodyguard. “You would lose your head if it wouldn't be screwed on! Dad,” Ivar said as Ragnar had managed to bridge the gap between them while Heahmund was making his way past Ragnar and towards the cabin. “deliver me from this insufferable man.”

Ragnar laughed at that and pulled his son into a fierce hug before offering his back to him. Ivar did not hesitate a second to climb up. Ragnar groaned under the weight even if it was just for show. His little boy hardly weighed anything at all to him. “You wanted to keep him,” He reminded Ivar with a grin as he closed the passenger door and started walking back up to the cabin. “Now you deal with him.”

※※※※※※※ 

**December 2018**

He found his son Ivar sitting in the living room. That was by no means unusual. What was unusual, however, was the photo album he was holding in his hands. Beside him on the sofa cushions rested a stack of fashion magazines much to Ragnar’s surprise. 

“What are you doing there?” He addressed his son and noticed how he flinched at the sound of his voice. The wide-eyed, embarrassed look reminded him of the time he had caught Hvitserk masturbating that one time. Quickly, as if to hide the evidence of his shame, Ivar gathered the photobook and the magazines into his arms. No, Ragnar then realized, he did not look embarrassed or as if he had been caught masturbating. The look Ivar shot him was like that of Gollum and he was trying to protect his treasure from the hands of his evil father.

“Nothing!” Ivar quickly shot back as he clamored to hide his precious from his father’s all-seeing-eye. 

As Ragnar stepped closer, however, he recognized the face on the covers of these magazines instantly even as Ivar did his best to hide the magazines from him. The photo album too was painfully familiar. He couldn't help but feel his heart clench at the realization of what his son was looking at. He didn't say anything about that at first as he sat down next to him on the plush grey sofa. Instead, he grabbed Ivar’s chin between his thumb and forefinger to turn his head towards him before his finger brushed over a cut at the side of Ivar’s jaw that had caught his eye the moment he had gotten closer. The boy was only fourteen years old yet he looked like he promised to become a very handsome young man. 

“What happened there?”

“Shaving accident…” Ivar murmured as he pulled away from his grasp.

“Shaving?” Ragnar echoed in surprise as a cold fist closed around his heart. “I didn't know you shaved yet. Who showed you?” He should know these things. He should have been the one to show his baby boy how to do it. He had shown Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd too. It was something that a father was supposed to do. A father was supposed to show his sons the ropes, teach them what it meant to be a man. He remembered how he had taught his other boys these things. He remembered the feeling of pride swell inside his chest every time he did so. He remembered Ubbe, being barely eleven years old, standing next to him in his bathroom and shaving with a toy razor that Ragnar had bought him because Ubbe had kept nagging him. Apparently, he had missed the chance to show Ivar too. He had missed his chance with his baby, with his last son.

“Ubbe did,” Ivar answered straight away this time and with his whole chest too. Ragnar, however, felt a sting of hurt from these words. “And then Hvitserk said I had to shave my legs too and now Hvitserk and Sigurd make fun of me for doing it. Which only proves that you can trust no one in this life. Your own brothers are bound to betray you and stab you in the back.”

Ragnar breathed out a laugh at that. “No, you go that all wrong, Ivar. You can trust people - but _never_ your big brothers. My big brother once shaved my head and my eyebrows off and told me I had cancer - and that was one of his milder pranks on me. Big brothers are not to be trusted.” He pointed at the photo album then. “Were you looking at photos of your mom?”

Ivar seemed oddly flustered by this question but then he nodded and looked back down onto the photo album in his lap. He noticed how his fingers kept hovering over the cover before, finally, he opened the album again. “You never talk about her … No one ever talks about her. She was pretty. Here, look.” He pointed at their wedding photo on one of the first pages. She had already been pregnant with Ubbe then but the photo didn’t show that. “Next to her, you look like a bridge troll.”

“Yeah,” Ragnar laughed. “You got the bridge troll gene from me, all of you. But you, Ivar, you look a lot like your mother, here-” He grabbed one of the magazines Ivar had found from his son’s lap. Aslaug was grazing the cover of it. She had been beautiful and there was no reason why Ragnar should not have fallen for her - Yet, he never had. Not truly. He had loved her in his own way as the mother of his sons but Aslaug had never had a chance against Lagertha - dead or alive. “The same strong jawline, the same nose. Your mother was beautiful. She used to dabble in modeling here and there just to kill time - before you guys came along.”

“What was she like?”

Ragnar paused at that. He could lie to Ivar and tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. He could see it in those big blue eyes how he desperately wanted to hear nice things about his mother. However, Ragnar had never been one to lie to his sons. “She was … difficult, sometimes,” He then breathed out and added a little chuckle to lessen the blow. “She had been raised like a princess and she behaved like one too half the time. She loved her children but I always thought that it was a very superficial love. Don’t get me wrong, she was a devoted mother - in her own way. I always thought that she liked the attention she got from being a good and devoted mother - and the attention she would get from her children. In the public eye, your mother was the epitome of what it meant to be the perfect mother and she thrived on that. You, however, she would have spoiled rotten. She would have treated you like a doll.”

Sometimes - and Ragnar would never say that to Ivar - he was glad that Aslaug had not been around to raise him. Aslaug has been the kind of woman who enjoyed the spotlight. The magazines Ivar had found held numerous photos of her proudly presenting her pregnant belly or holding one of her kids. She would have basked in the attention of having a sick child. It was rotten to even think that way, but Ragnar knew that it was the truth. She would have loved and doted on Ivar but her love would have been suffocating. She would have paraded him around, would have given interview after interview of how sick her baby boy was. Then again, he realized that maybe this would still have been better than the way he had raised Ivar.

“You don't sound like you loved her,” Ivar then finally addressed the elephant in the room.

“It's more complicated than that, Ivar.”

“No, it's really not,” Ivar said with a small shrug. “Bjorn told me you married her because your father forced you to. Is that true? And don't lie - I am not a baby anymore.”

“It's true, yes,” Ragnar admitted. “We made it work somehow. Your mother had her life and I had mine and we kept those separate for the most part. Somehow we still managed to produce four children. To the public, we looked like the perfect couple because she plopped out one baby after the other but the truth was very different.”

“Bjorn said she had affairs.”

“We both had affairs,” Ragnar chuckled. “I said to her that I didn't care as long as she would not place a cuckoo in my nest.”

“And you never … Uhm … doubted that one of us is yours?” The intention behind that question was very clear. Ragnar could see the doubt in Ivar’s eyes and recalled not for the first time the joke Floki had once made about how odd it was that Ivar, out of all of his children, had dark hair and seemed so completely different from his siblings. He remembered telling Floki that Ivar was a surprise in every sense of the way. It was true. They had not planned on having Ivar. It had just happened. Suddenly, he had been there, and ever since his very conception, he had kept his family on his toes.

“No!” Ragnar laughed and at Ivar’s questioning gaze he ruffled his hair. “You guys are too much like your old man to be from someone else, trust me. _You_ are the only one stepping out of line.” Again, he ruffled Ivar’s dark hair before leaning his head against his son’s. “But I still know you are mine.” Even if he wasn't, Ragnar thought, that wouldn't have made a difference to him. He couldn't say that out loud, of course. It was the first time in years that he was sitting like this with Ivar, his arm around his shoulders as the boy kept going through photos of his mother. It felt nice for a change - not fighting with Ivar. No one in this family could get under his skin like Ivar. 

He didn't know how long they spent looking at the photos but Ivar fell asleep at one point and Ragnar remained sitting with him like that, his son’s weight comfortably against him as he looked at the pictures of his late wife and his kids when they were still little. They had all grown up so fast. Hell, Ivar was shaving now. He was a man. When did that happen?

“IVAR!” A voice echoed through the house followed by the sound of stomping feet coming down the staircase. “WHERE IS THE DEMON SPAWN?” It didn't take long until Hvitserk skittered into the living room, a towel around his hips, his hair dripping wet and … red. “AHA!” He exclaimed as he pointed one shaking finger at Ivar who opened his eyes sleepily at the commotion. He would have probably tried escaping his brother’s wrath too but Ragnar quickly pulled him tighter, making sure he couldn't run.

“Hand him over, Dad! It's time for him to die!”

“What did he do?” He asked, hardly suppressing the amusement in his voice.

“He put ketchup in my shampoo!”

“You told me I had to shave my legs!” Ivar shot back. “Revenge!”

Maybe he was not yet a man at all, Ragnar thought and the thought calmed him a bit. No matter how tall or hairy his sons had grown - none of them were yet adults.

※※※※※※※

Ragnar Lothbrok couldn't sleep. That was not unusual in the slightest. As a young man, he had slept like a rock. However, with every year that passed and made him older, the worse and worse his sleep seemed to get. Well, as he had grown in years so too he had grown in worries, he assumed. The pile of worries wouldn't get smaller with age but instead grow into mountains that were plaguing him at night. Most of those worries revolved around his children, of course, and an even larger portion around his baby boy. He sat outside again on the steps to the porch, wrapped in a blanket and looking at the stars. Of course, he heard the door creak open even before Ivar’s voice alerted him of his presence.

“Dad?” He asked carefully. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, Chipmunk,” Ragnar huffed. He wasn’t even surprised that Ivar was awake. Truly, they were too much alike. “I just can't sleep, that's all.”

“Yeah me neither,” Ivar replied. He didn't look at him as Ivar slowly crawled out onto the porch and joined him on the steps. Quickly, Ragnar offered his blanket and Ivar didn't hesitate to get under it even as it meant snuggling into his father’s side. He looked pale in the moonlight and Ragnar could see the strain his body had been put through lately. He seemed older than last time he had seen him but not older in the way a father would expect. 

“What worries you?”

“The exams?”

“Ivar.”

His son laughed breathlessly. “No … Nothing in particular … just … life, I guess.” He shrugged and Ragnar felt the movement against his own shoulder. “I sometimes wonder how much time I have left and if I … I don't know, waste it.”

“Yes … I know that feeling,” Ragnar said even though it pained him to hear those words from his youngest child. Ivar was a young man. He should not have such worries yet. “When I was a young man, this feeling was a friend to me. We lead a dangerous lifestyle, after all. More so back in the day when I was your age. To this day, I sometimes wonder if I am wasting my time and if all of this has been worth it. My own father only got sixty years. Sometimes when I think about that, I get frightened you know? I am almost the same age now as he was when he died.”

“You are worried you might die?” He felt Ivar’s big eyes on him now, surprise coloring his voice as if it had never quite occurred to Ivar that his father would die someday.

“Sometimes.”

“No, you will be an old, strange man someday, Dad, I can see it.”

“Can you now, Ivar the prophet?”

“Sure.” He shrugged again. “I have always been smarter than you, after all.”

“That much is certain.”

“I just hope I will be around to see it,” Ivar huffed.

“Why wouldn't you? Are you planning on going somewhere?”

“Dad…”

“Ivar…”

“I'm just saying- We have always known that I … I wouldn't get old, right?” Ivar sighed and leaned his head against his shoulder. “I’m okay with that.”

“Mhm … yeah, well I’m not,” Ragnar said. “No father should outlive his sons and I am not intending to outlive you.”

“We had this conversation before.”

“I know we had. But that is not keeping me from having it again as you can see. I won’t allow you to leave silently just because you can’t get a new heart. And I do not care what you have to say about it. I told you before, this company, my legacy, will be yours someday. I expect you to not leave me hanging here.”

Ivar was silent for a bit and Ragnar put his arm around him. Something had changed since the last time that they had had this conversation. He remembered visiting him at the hospital in Oxford. He remembered seeing him white as a sheet and hooked-up to machines while Heahmund had been pacing the hallway outside tired and out of his mind with worry. It was true. They had always known that Ivar’s time was running through their fingers like sand. When he had seen him at the hospital and told him that he would get him a new heart no matter what it would take, Ivar had become furious. Now, however, something was different and he could not quite put his finger on it.

“You never told me about why you broke up with that girl Freydis,” Ragnar tried to change the topic. He remembered that all of that mess had happened before that fateful conversation in the hospital. He remembered wondering if the stress Ivar had experienced from this break up had put him in the hospital. Now, however, Ivar laughed.

“It's stupid,” Ivar huffed. “She was really pretty … and she said all the right things as well. I fell head over heels for her and believed everything she said. Well, Heahmund warned me. He didn't like her from the start. He said she was bad news.”

“Was he right?”

“Of course!” Ivar laughed. “It's Heahmund, he is usually right - don't tell him I said that, though. We got into arguments a lot, Heahmund and I - about Freydis, mostly. He kept saying that she was only with me because of my notoriety and because she liked being seen with me in public and all the things I could show her and buy her. He said that she was a gold-digger. One day, he came to me and he told me that Freydis had tried to seduce him. I lost my shit. I kicked him out, told him that he was jealous and wanted to ruin our relationship so he could have her. I didn't talk to him for a month - and then I caught her fucking another guy. Turns out, Heahmund was right. She really was with me only because of the money and notoriety but I was too blind to see.”

“Was that the reason you ended up at the hospital?”

“Kinda,” Ivar chuckled. “I had to apologize to Heahmund, can you believe it? Well, at least I can rest assured that I was right too. Heahmund was jealous, only not in the way I thought.” 

Ragnar was confused for a moment before he recalled the way Gyda had reacted earlier as he had referred to Ivar and Heahmund being friends. _Oh_. Finally, it clicked in him - but he wouldn't show to his son that he only now realized the truth. Part of his role was to appear as if he always knew what the fuck was happening around him and to know more than anyone else, after all. _So that’s what changed,_ Ragnar thought.

With another sigh, Ivar huddled closer but Ragnar did not protest. “Tell me about the stars, Dad,” He instead demanded. 

Ragnar hesitated for a moment. He thought that he had won the argument even though he did not quite know yet what that win truly entailed. Still, he had won against his stubborn son and learned something new about Ivar in the process. He pulled him closer into his side and leaned his head against Ivar’s as he gazed back up at the stars. And then, after taking a deep breath, he complied with Ivar’s wish.

**-End of Chapter 12-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around for the ride <3


End file.
